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A FACE. 



Page I, 



/ 



Selections from 

The Poetical Works 







Robert Browning 



VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH ONE HUNDRED NEW 
ILLUSTRATIONS 



Thomas Mcllvaine 




NEW YORK 3^ %\/t} X 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY ' 
MDCCCXCn 



Copyright, 1892, 
By FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



My Star, .... 

A Face, 

My Last Duchess, 

Song From " Pippa Passes," 

Cristina, .... 

Count Gismond, 

Eurydice to Orpheus, 

The Glove, 

Song, .... 

A Serenade at the Villa, 

Youth and Art, 

The Flight of the Duchess, 

Song from " Pippa Passes," 

" How they Brought the Good News 

from Ghent to Aix," 
Song from " Paracelsus," 
Through the Metidja to Abd-el- 

Kadr, 
Incident of the French Camp 
The Lost Leader, . 
Li a Gondola, 
A Lovers' Quarrel, 
Earth's Immortalities, 
The Last Ride Together, 
Mesmerism, 
By the Fireside, 
Any Wife to any Husband, 
In a Year, . . ' . 
Song from " James Lee," 
A Woman's Last Word, 
Meeting at Night, 
Parting at Morning, 
Women and Roses, . 
^Misconceptions, 



PAGE 




PAGE 


I 


A Pretty Woman, .... 


85 


I 


A Light Woman, .... 


87 


2 


Love in a Life, 


89 


3 


Life in a Love, .... 


90 


4 


The Laboratory, .... 


90 


5 


Gold Hair 


92 


9 


The Statue and the Bust, . . . 


96 


lO 


Love among the Ruins, 


103 


14 


Time's Revenges, .... 


105 


15 


Waring, 


107 


17 


Home Thoughts from Abroad, 


"3 


19 


The Italian in England, 


114 


42 


The Englishman in Italy, 


117 




Up at a Villa — Down in the City, 


122 


42 


Pictor Ignotus, 


125 


44 


Fra Lippo Lippi, .... 


127 




Andrea del Sarto, .... 


136 


44 


The Bishop Orders his Tomb at 




47 


Saint Praxed's Church, . 


142 


48 


A Toccata of Galuppi's, . 


145 


49 


How it Strikes a Contemporary, . 


148 


55 


Protus, 


150 


59 


Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha, 


152 


59 


Abt Vogler, 


156 


62 


Two in the Campagna, 


159 


66 


" De Gustibus— " .... 


162 


75 


The Guardian Angel, . 


163 


78 


Evelyn Hope, 


164 


81 


Memorabilia, 


166 


81 


Apparent Failure, .... 


166 


82 


Prospice, 


168 


83 


" Childe Roland to the Dark Tower 




83 


Came," 


169 


84 


A Grammarian's Funeral, 


174 



VI 



Contents, 





PAGE 


Cleon, 


179 


Instans Tyrannus, 


187 


An Epistle, 


189 


Caliban upon Setebos, . 


196 


Saul, ....... 


203 


Rabbi Ben Ezra, .... 


215 


Epilogue, 


221 


A Weill, 


224 


Apparitions, 


225 


Natural Magic, .... 


226 


Magical Nature, . . . . 


226 


Garden P^ancies, T, . . . 


226 


Garden Fancies, II, . 


228 


In Three Days, . . . . r 


230 


The Lost Mistress, . . , , 


231 


One Way of Love, 


232 


Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli, . 


233 


Numpholeptos, .... 


234 


Appearances, 


238 


I'he Worst of It, . 


238 


Too Late, 


242 


Bifurcation, 


245 


A Likeness, 


246 


May and Death, .... 


248 


A Forgiveness, 


249 


Cenciaja, 


259 


Porphyria's Lover, .... 


266 


Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege 




of Burial, .... 


268 


Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, . 


281 


The Heretic's Tragedy, 


284 


Holj'-Cross Day, .... 


287 





PAGE 


Amphibian, . = ., . 


« 290 


St. Martin's Summer, . 


293 


James Lee's Wife, 


' 295 


Respectability, 


. 306 


Dis Aliter Visum, 


• 307 


Confessions, .... 


311 


The Householder, 


. 312 


Tray, ..... 


313 


Cavalier Tunes, I, . . . 


.•315 


Cavalier Tunes, II, 


. 316 


Cavalier Tunes, III, 


. 316 


Before, ..... 


317 


After, ..... 


. 319 


Herve Riel, .... 


319 


In a Balcony, . , . < 


• 323 


Old Pictures in Florence, 


349 


Bishop Blougram's Apology, . 


• 358 


Mr. Sludge, " The Medium," 


. 382 


The Boy and the Angel, . 


• 423 


A Death in the Desert, 


. 426 


Fears and Scruples, . 


• 444 


Artemis Prologizes, 


447 


Pheidippides, .... 


• 450 


The Patriot, .... 


456 


Popularity, .... 


• 457 


Pisgah Sights, i, . 


459 


Pisgah Sights. 2, . . . 


. 460 


Pisgah Sights. 3, . . . 


461 


At the " Mermaid," 


. 462 


House, . . . . . 


466 


Shop, ..... 


, 467 


A Tale. . . « . . 


471 



SELECTIONS FROM 

ROBERT BROWNING 



MY STAR. 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, 

Now a dart of blue ; 
Till my friends have said 

They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 
Then it stops like a bird ; like a fiower, hangs furled : 

They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a world ? 

Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it. 

A FACE. 

If one could have that little head of hers 
Painted upon a background of pale gold. 
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers ! 
No shade encroaching on the matchless mold 
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft 
In the pure profile ; not as when she laughs, 
For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft 
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's 
Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. 

Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround. 
How it should waver, on the pale gold ground. 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts ! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 



My Last Duchess, 



Of heaven, his angel faces orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb : 
But these are only massed there, I should think, 
Waiting" to see some wonder momently 
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky 
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), 
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye 
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. 



MY LAST DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf's hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will't please you sit and look at her } I said 

*' Fra Pandolf " by design : for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain 1 have drawn for you, but I), 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there ; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or *' Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat ; " such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say } — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed : she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and iier looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one ! My favor at her i3reast. 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace, — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked 

Somehow — 1 know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-liundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 



Song from ^'' Pippa Passes.^^ 



This sort of trifling" ? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which 1 have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark," — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose 

Never to stoop. O sir ! she smiled, no doubt. 

Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 

Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands • 

As if alive. Will't please you rise .^ We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretense 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! 



SONG FRO:\I ''PIPPA PASSES." 
I. 

Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 

When — wdiere — 
How — can this arm establish her above me, 

If fortune fixed her as my lady there. 
There already, to eternally reprove me ? 

(** Hist ! " said Kate the queen ; 
But " Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

*' 'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 
Crumbling your hounds their messes I") 

II. 

Is she wronged } — To the rescue of her honor. 

My heart ! 
Is she poor.^ — What costs it to become a donor? 

Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
But that fortune sliould have thrust all this upon her ! 

(" Nay, list ! " bade Kate the queen ; 
And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

" 'Tis only a page that carols unseen. 
Fitting your hawks their jesses ! ") 



Cristina, 



CRISTINA. 
I. 

She should never have looked at me if she meant I should not 

love her ! 
There are plenty . . . men, you call such, I suppose . . . she 

may discover 
All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found 

them : 
But I'm not so ; and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing 

round them. 

II. 

What .^ To fix me thus meant nothing.^ But I can't tell 

(there's my weakness) 
What her look said !— no vile cant, sure, about '' need to strew^ 

the bleakness 
Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels " — no 

" strange yearning 
That such souls have, most to lavish where there's chance of 

least returning." 

III. 

Oh ! we're sunk enough here, God knows ! but not quite so 
sunk that moments, 

Sure though seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true en- 
dowments 

Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing 

Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing. 

IV. 

There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire-flames 

noondays kindle, 
Whereby piled-up honors perish, whereby swollen ambitions 

dwindle ; 
While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play 

unstifled, 
Seems the sole work of a lifetime that away the rest have trifled. 

V. 

Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt 

clearly, 
Ages past the soul existed, here an age 'tis resting merely, 
And hence fleets again for ages ; while the true end, sole and 

single. 
It stops here for is, this love way, with some other soul to 

mingle } 



Count Gismond, 



VI. 

Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it ; 
Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it), 
But this life's 'end and this love-bliss have been lost here. 

Doubt you whether 
This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed 

together? 

VII. 

Oh, observe I Of course, next moment, the world's honors, in 

derision, 
Trampled out the light forever. Never fear but there's provision 
Of the Devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in 

rapture ! 
— Making those who catch God's secret, just so much more 

prize their capture ! 

VIII. 

Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has lost me, 1 have 

gained her ; 
Her soul's mine ; and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's 

remainder. 
Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and 

blended ; 
And then, come next life quickly! This world's use will have 

been ended. 



COUNT GISMOND. 

AIX IN PROVENCE. 
I. 

Christ God who savest man, save most 
Of men Count Gismond who saved me ! 

Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, 
Chose time and place and company 

To suit it : when he struck at length 

My honor, 'twas with all his strength. 

II. 

And doubtlessly, ere he could draw 

All points to one, he must have schemed ! 

That miserable morning saw 
Few half so happy as I seemed, 

While being dressed in queen's array 

To give our tourney prize away. 



Count Gisfnond. 




A LAST LOOK ON THE MIRROR. 



III. 

I thought they loved me, did me grace 
To please themselves : 'twas all 
their deed. 
God makes, or fair or foul, our face : 
If showing mine so caused 
to bleed 
My cousins' hearts, they 
should have dropped 
A word, and straight the 
play had stopped. 

IV. 

They, too, so beauteous ! 

Each a queen 
By virtue of her brow and 

breast ; 
Not needing to be crowned, 

I mean, 
As 1 do. E'en when I 

was (h'essed, 
Had either of them spoke, 

instead 
Of glancing sideways wath 

still head ! 



V. 

But no : they let me'^augh, and sing 
My birthday song quite through, adjust 

The last rose in my garland, fling 
A last look on the mirror, trust 

My arms to each an arm of theirs, 

And so descend the castle-stairs — 



VI. 

And come out on the morning troop 
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, 

And called me queen, and made me stoop 
Under the canopy — (a streak 

That pierced it, of the outside sun, 

Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) — 

VII. 

And they could let me take my state 
And foolish throne amid applause 



Count Gismond, 



Of all come there to celebrate 

My queen's-day — Oh, I think the cause 
Of much was, they forgot no crowd 
Makes up for parents in their shroud ! 

VIII. 

However that be, all eyes were bent 

Upon me, when my cousins cast 
Theirs down ; 'twas time I should present 

The victor's crown, but . . . there, 'twill last 
No long time . . . the old mist again 
Blinds me as then it did. How vain ! 

IX. 

See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk 
With his two boys : I can proceed. 

Well, at that moment, who should stalk 
Forth boldly — to my face, indeed — 

But Gauthier? and he thundered " Stay ! " 

And all staid. " Bring no crowns, I say ! 

X. 

" Bring torches ! Wind the penance-sheet 
About her ! Let her shun the chaste, 

Or lay herself before their feet ! 
Shall she, whose body I embraced 

A night long, queen it in the day ? 

For honor's sake no crowns, I say ! " 

XI. 

I ? What I answered ? As I live, 

I never fancied such a thing 
As answer possible to give. 

What says the body when they spring 
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole 
Strength on it ? No more says the souL 

XII. 

Till out strode Gismond : then I knew 

That I was saved. I never met 
His face before ; but, at first view, 

I felt quite sure that God had set 
Himself to Satan : who would spend 
A minute's mistrust on the end.^ 



Count Gismond. 




XIII. 

He strode to Gauthier, in his 

throat 
Gave him the lie, then struck 

his mouth 
Witli one back-handed blow that 

wrote 
In blood men's verdict then. 

North, South, 
East, West, I looked. The lie 

was dead 
And damned, and truth stood up 

instead. 



XIV. 



This 



most, that I 



my 



Until I sank upon his breast. 



glads me 

enjoyed 
The heart o' the joy, with 

content 
In watching- Gismond unalloyed 

By any doubt of the event ; 
God took that on him — I was 

bid 
Watch Gismond for my part : 

I did. 

XV. 



Did I not watch him while he let 
His armorer just brace his greaves. 

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret 

The while ! His foot . . . my memory leaves 

No least stamp out, nor how anon 

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 

XVI. 

And e'en before the trumpet's sound 
Was finished, prone lay the false knight. 

Prone as his lie, upon the ground : 
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight 

O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, 

Cleaving till out the truth he clove. 

XVII. 

Which done, he dragged him to my feet, 
And said, "Here die, but end thy breath 

In full confession, lest thou fleet 

From my first to God's second death ! 



Eurydice to Orpheus, 



Say, hast thou Hed ? " And, " I have hed 
To God and her," he said, and died. 

XVIII. 

Then Gismond, kneehng to me, asked 

— What safe my heart holds, though no word 

Could I repeat now, if I tasked 
My powers forever, to a third, 

Dear even as you are. Pass the rest 

Until I sank upon his breast. 

XIX. 

Over my head his arm he flung 

Against the world ; and scarce I felt 

His sword (that dripped by me and swung) 
A little shifted in its belt, 

For he began to say the while 

How South our home lay many a mile. 

XX. 

So 'mid the shouting multitude 

We two walked forth to never more 

Return. My cousins have pursued 
Their life, untroubled as before 

I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place 

God lighten ! May his soul find grace ! 

XXI. 

Our elder boy has got the clear 

Great brow ; though when his brother's black 
Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here } 

And have you brought my tercel back .^^ 
I was just telling Adela 
How many birds it struck since May. 

EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. 

A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A. 

But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the bro.w ! 
Let them once more absorb me ! One look now 

Will lap me round forever, not to pass 
Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond : 
Hold me but safe again within the bond 

Of one immortal look ! All woe that was. 
Forgotten, and all terror that may be, 
Defied, — no past is mine, no future : look at me ! 



lo The Glove. 



THE GLOVE. 

(PETER RONSARD loqidtlir.) 

"■ HeiGHO," yawned one day King Francis, 

** Distance all value enhances ! 

When a man's busy, why, leisure 

Strikes him as wonderful pleasure : 

Taith, and at leisure once is he ? 

Straightway he wants to be busy. 

Here we've got peace ; and aghast I'm 

Caught thinking w^ar the true pastime. 

Is there a reason in meter ? 

Give us your speech, m.aster Peter !" 

I who, if mortal dare say so. 

Ne'er am at a loss with my Naso, 

" Sire," I replied, " joys prove cloudlets : 

Men are the merest Ixions " — 

Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's 

. . . Heigho ... go look at our lions ! " 

Such are the sorrowful chances 

If you talk tine to King Francis. 

And so, to the court-yard proceeding, 

Our company, Francis was leading, 

Increased by new followers tenfold 

Before he arrived at the penfold ; 

Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen 

At sunset the western horizon. 

And Sir de Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost 

With the dame he professed to adore most — 

Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed 

Her, and the horrible pitside ; 

For the penfold surrounded a hollow 

Which led where the eye scarce dared follow 

And shelved to the chamber secluded 

Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. 

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab 

As glossy and black as a scarab. 

And bade him make sport, and at once stir 

Up and out of his den the old monster. 

They opened a hole in the wirework 

Across it, and dropped there a firework. 

And fled : one's heart's beating redoubled ; 

A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 

The blackness and silence so utter. 

By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; 

Then earth in a sudden contortion 

Gave out to our gaze her abortion. 



The Glove. 



II 



Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot 
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow, 
And whose faculties move in no small mist 
When he versifies David the Psalmist) 
I should study that brute to describe you 
Illiiin [uda Leonein de Tribii. 
One's whole blood gi-ew curdling and creepy 
To see the black mane, vast and heapy, 




To SEE THE BLACK MANE, VAST AND HEAPV. 



The tail in the air stiff and straining. 

The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, 

As over the barrier which bounded 

His platform, and us who surrounded 

The barrier, they reached and they rested 

On space that might stand him in best stead ; 

For who knew, he thouglu, what the amazement, 

The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, 

And if in this minute of wonder, 

No outlet, 'mid hghtning and thunder. 

Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, 

The lion at last was delivered ? 

Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead ! 

And you saw by the flash on his forehead. 

By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. 

He was leagues in the desert already. 

Driving the flocks up the mountain. 

Or catUke couched hard by the fountain 

To waylay the date-gathering negress : 

So guarded he entrance or egre.ss. 



12 The Glove, 



** How he stands!" quoth the King: ** we may well 
swear 
(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere, 
And so can afford the confession), 
We exercise wholesome discretion 
In keeping aloof from his threshold ; 
Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, 
Their first would too pleasantly purloin 
The visitor's brisket or sirloin: 
But who's he would prove so foolhardy? 
Not the best man of Marignan, pardie! " 

The sentence no sooner was uttered, 
Than over the rails a glove fluttered, 
Fell close to the lion, and rested : 
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested 
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing 
For months past; he sat there pursuing 
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance 
Fine speeches like gold from a balance. 

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier ! 
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, 
Walked straight to the glove, — while the lion 
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on 
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire. 
And the musky oiled skin of the Kafifir, — 
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated. 
Leaped back where the lady was seated. 
And full in the face of its owner 
Flung the glove. 

''Your heart's queen, you dethrone her.^ 
So should I ! " — cried the King — " 'twas mere vanity, 
Not love, set that task to humanity ! " 
Lords and ladies alike turnedxwith loathing 
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing 

Not so, I ; for I caught an expression 
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession 
Amid the Court's scofTmg and merriment, — 
As if from no pleasing experiment 
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful 
So long as the process was needful, — 
As if she had tried, in a crucible, 
To what *' speeches like gold " were reducible, 
And, finding the finest prove copper. 
Felt smoke in her face was but proper; 
To know what she had Jiot to trust to, 



The Glove. 13 



Was worth all the ashes and dust too. 
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; 
Clement Marot staid ; I followed after, 
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant ? 
If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? 
** For I " — so I spoke—" am a poet : 
Human nature, — behooves that I know it ! " 

She told me, " Too long had I heard 

Of the deed proved alone by the word : 

For my love — what De Lorge would not dare ! 

With my scorn — what De Lorge could compare ! 

And the endless descriptions of death 

He would brave when my lip formed a breath, 

I must reckon as braved, or, of course. 

Doubt his word — and moreover, perforce, 

For such gifts as no lady could spurn, 

Must offer my love in return. 

WHien I looked on your lion, it brought 

All the dangers at once to my thought, 

Encountered by all sorts of men. 

Before he was lodged in his den, — 

From the poor slave whose club or bare hands 

Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands. 

With no King and no Court to applaud, 

By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, 

Yet to capture the creature made shift. 

That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, 

— To the page who last leaped o'er the fence 

Of the pit, on no greater pretense 

Than to get back the bonnet he dropped. 

Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. 

So, wiser I judged it to make 

One trial what ' death for my sake ' 

Really meant, while the power was yet mine 

Than to wait until time should define 

Such a phrase not so simply as I, 

Who took it to mean just * to die.' 

The blow a glove gives is but weak : 

Does the mark yet discolor my cheek .^ 

But, when the heart suffers a blow, 

W^ill the pain pass so soon, do you know } " 

I looked, as away she was sweeping. 
And saw a youth eagerly keeping 
As close as he dared to the doorway. 
No doubt that a noble should more weigh 
His life than befits a plebeian ; 



14 Sojig. 

And yet, had our brute been Nemean — 

(I judge by a certain calm fervor 

The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) 

— He'd have scarce thought you did him tlie worst turn 

If you whispered, ''Friend, what you'd get, first earn ! " 

And w^hen, shortly after, she carried 

Her shame from the Court, and they married, 

To that marriage some happiness, maugre 

The voice of the Court, I dared augur. 

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, 

Those in wonder and praise, these in envy: 

And, in short, stood so plain a head taller 

That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her ? 

The beauty, that rose in the sequel 

To the King's love, who loved her a week well. 

And 'twas noticed he never would honor 

De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) 

With the easy commission of stretching 

His legs in the service, and fetching 

His wife, from her chamber, those straying 

Sad gloves she was always mislaying, 

While the King took the closet to chat in, — 

But of course this adventure came pat in. 

And never the King told the story, 

How bringing a glove brought such glory. 

But the wife smiled — "His nerves are grown firmer: 

Mine he brings now and utters no murmur." 

Veiiie7iti occurrite morbo ! 
With which moral I drop my theorbo. 

SONG. 
I. 

Nay but you, who do not love her, 

Is she not pure gold, my mistress ? 
Holds earth aught — speak truth — above her.^ 

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress. 
And this last fairest tress of all. 
So fair, see, ere I let it fall } 

II. 

Because you spend your lives in praising ; 

To praise, you search the wide world over ; 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing. 

If earth holds aught — speak truth — above her.^ 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much, 



A Serenade at the Villa.. 1 5 



A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. 
I. 

That was I, you heard last night, 
When there rose no moon at all, 

Nor, to pierce the strained and tight 
Tent of heaven, a planet small : 

Life was dead, and so was light. 

II. 
Not a twinkle from the fly, 

Not a glimmer from the worm, 
When the crickets stopped their cry, 

When the owls forbore a term, 
You heard music : that was L 

III. 
Earth turned in her sleep with pain, 

Sultrily suspired for proof : 
In at heaven and out again. 

Lightning! — where it broke the roof, 
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. 

IV. 

What they could my words expressed, 
O my love, my all, my one ! 

Singing helped the verses best ; 

And, when singing's best was done, 

To my lute I left the rest. 



So wore night ; the east was gray, 

White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers 

There would be another day ; 
Ere its first of heavy hours 

Found me, I had passed away. 

VI. 

What became of all the hopes. 

Words and song and lute as well } 

Say, this struck you — *' When life gropes 
Feebly for the path where fell 

Light last on the evening slopes, 

VII. 

" One friend in that path shall be. 
To secure my step from wrong ; 
One to count night day for me. 



A Serenade at the Villa, 




You HEARD MUSIC. 



Patient through the watches long, 
Serving most with none to see." 

viir. 
Never say — as something bodes — 

** So the worst has yet a worse ! 
When hfe halts 'neath double loads. 

Better the taskmaster's curse 
Than such music on the roads ! 



Youth and Art. 17 



IX. 

"When no moon succeeds the sun, 
Nor can pierce the midnight's tent, 

Any star, the smallest one, 

While some drops, where lightning rent, 

Show the final storm begun — 

X. 

" When the fire-fly hides its spot, 

W^hen the garden-voices fail 
In the darkness thick and hot, — 
. Shall another voice avail, 
That shape be where these are not? 

XI. 

" Has some plague a longer lease. 

Proffering its help uncouth ? 
Can't one even die in peace } 

As one shuts one's eyes on youth, 
Is that face the last one sees } " 

XII. 

Oh, how dark your villa was, 

Windows fast and obdurate ! 
How the garden grudged me grass 

Where I stood — the iron gate 
Ground its teeth to let me pass ! 



YOUTH AND ART. 

I. 
It once might have been, once only : 

We lodged in a street together, 
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 

I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 

II. 

Your trade was with sticks and clay : 

You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished; 

Then laughed, " They will see, some day; 
Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 

III. 
My business was song, song, song: 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, 
'* Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, 

And Grisi's existence emibittered ! " 



Youth and Art. 



IV. 

I earned no more by a warble 
'J'han you by a sketch in plaster : 

You wanted a piece of marble, 
I needed a music-master. 

V. 

We studied hard in our styles, 

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos ; 

For air, looked out on the tiles, 

For fun, w^atched each other's windows. 

VI. 

You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too ; 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With fingers the clay adhered to. 

VII. 

And I — soon managed to find 

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 
Was forced to put up a blind. 

And be safe in my corset-lacing. 

VIII. 

No harm ! It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up 

As I shook upon E /;/ alt.. 
Or ran the chromatic scale up ; 

IX. 

For spring bade the sparrows pair, 
And the boys and girls gave guesses, 

And stalls in our street looked rare 
With bulrush and watercresses. 

X. 

Why did not you pinch a flower 
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 

W^hy did not I put a power 

Of thanks in a look, or sing it } 

XI. 

I did look, sharp as a lynx 

(And yet the memory rankles), 

When models arrived, some minx 
Tripped upstairs, she and her ankles. 



The Flight of the Duchess. 1 9 

XII. 

But I think I gave you as good ! 

'* That foreign fellow, — who can know 
How she pays, in a playful mood, 

For his tuning her that piano ? " 

XIII. 

Could you say so, and never say, 

" Suppose we join hands and for tunes, 

And I fetch her from over the way. 

Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" 

XIV. 

No, no ; you would not be rash, 

Nor I rasher and something over ; 
You've to settle yet Gibson's hash. 

And Grisi vet lives in clover. 

XV. 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 

I'm queen myself at bals-pare, 
I've married a rich old lord, 

And you're dubbed knight and an R. A. 

XVI. 

Each life's unfulfilled, you see ; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : 
We have not sighed deep, laughed free. 

Starved, feasted, despaired — been happy. 

XVII. 

And nobody calls you a dunce, 

And people suppose me clevxr : 
This could but have happened once. 

And we missed it, lost it forever. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 

I. 
You're my friend : 
1 was the man the Duke spoke to ; 
I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too : 
So, here's the tale from beginning to end, 
My friend ! 

II. 
Ours is a great wild country : 
If you climb to our castle's top, 
I don't see where your eye can stop ; 



20 The Flight of the Duchess. 



For when you've passed the corn-field country, 

Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 

And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract. 

And cattle-tract to open-chase, 

And open-chase to the very base 

O' the mountain where, at a funeral pace, 

Round about, solemn and slow, 

One by one, row after row, 

Up and up the pine trees go, 

So, like black priests up, and so 

Down the other side again 

To another greater, wilder country, 

That's one vast red drear burnt-up plain. 

Branched through and through with many a vein 

Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt ; 

Look right, look left, look straight before, — 

Beneath they mine, above they smelt. 

Copper ore and iron ore, 

And forge and furnace mold and melt. 

And so on, more and ever more, 

Till at the last, for a bounding belt, 

Comes the salt sand hoar of the great seashore, 

— And the whole is our Duke's country. 

III. 
I was born the day this present Duke was — 
(And O, says the song, ere I was old !) 
In the castle where the other Duke was — 
(When I was happy and young, not old !) 
I in the kennel, he in the bower : 
We are of like age to an hour. 
My father was huntsman in that day : 
Who has not heard my father say, 
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 
Three times, four times out of five, 
With his huntspear he'd contrive 
To get the killing-place transfixed, 
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt ? 
And that's why the old Duke would rather 
He lost a salt-pit than my father, 
And loved to have him ever in call ; 
That's why my father stood in the hall 
When the old Duke brought his infant out 
To show the people, and while they passed 
The wondrous bantling round about, 
Was first to start at the outside blast 
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, 



The Flight of the Duchess, 21 



Just a month after the babe was born. 

" And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, " since 

The Duke has got an heir, our Prince 

Needs the Duke's self at his side : " 

The Duke looked down and seemed to wince. 

But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, 

Castles a-fire, men on their march. 

The toppling tower, the crashing arch ; 

And up he looked, and a while he eyed 

The row of crests and shields and banners 

Of all achievements after all manners. 

And ** Ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. 

The more was his comfort when he died 

At next year's end, in a velvet suit, 

With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot 

In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 

Petticoated like a herald. 

In a chamber next to an ante-room, 

Where he breathed the breath of page and groom. 

What he called stink, and they, perfume : 

— They should have set him on red Berold 

Mad with pride, like hre to manage ! 

They should have got his cheek fresh tannage 

Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine ! 

Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin ! 

(Hark, the w^ind's on the heath at its game ! 

Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 

To flap each broad wing like a banner. 

And turn in the wind', and dance like flame !) 

Had they broached a cask of white beer from Berlin ! 

— Or if you incline to prescribe mere wane, 

Put to his lips when they saw him pine, 

A cup of our own Moldavia fine, 

Cotnar, for instance, green as May sorrel 

And ropy with sweet, — we shall not quarrel. 

IV. 

So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 

Was left wath the infant in her clutches, 

She being the daughter of God knows who : 

And now w^as the time to revisit her tribe. 

Abroad and afar they went, the two, 

And let our people rail and gibe 

At the empty hall and extinguished fire, 

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, 

Till after long years we had our desire, 

And back came the Duke and his mother again. 



2 2 The Flight of the Duchess. 

V. 

And he came back the pertest Httle ape 
That ever affronted human shape ; 
Full of his travel, struck at himself. 
You'd say, he despised our bluff old ways ? 
— Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf 
That our rough North land was the Land of Lays, 
The one good thing left in evil days ; 
Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 
Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, 
And see true castles with proper towers, 
Youno^-hearted women, old-minded men, 
And manners now as manners were then. 
So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it, 
This Duke would fain know he was, without being it ; 
'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his sliowing it. 
Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it. 
He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, 
The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn- 
out : 
And chief in the chase his neck he periled. 
On a lathy horse, all legs and length, 
With blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; 
— They should have set him on red Berold 
With the red eye slow consuming in fire, 
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire ! 

VI. 

Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard ; 

And out of a convent, at the word. 

Came the lady, in time of spring. 

— Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling ! 

That day, I know, with a dozen oaths 

I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes 

Fit for the chase of urox or buffle 

In winter-time when you need to muffle. 

But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, 

And so we saw the lady arrive : 

My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger ! 

She was the smallest lady alive. 

Made in a piece of nature's madness. 

Too small, almost, for the life and gladness 

That over-filled her, as some hive 

Out of the bears' reach on the high trees 

Is crowded with its safe merry bees : 

In truth, she was not hard to please ! 



The Flight of the Duchess, 23 



Up she looked, clown she looked, round at the mead, 

Straight at the castle, that's best indeed 

To look at from outside the walls : 

As for us, styled the " serfs and thralls," 

She as much thanked me as if she had said it, 

(With her e3TS, do you understand ?) 

Because I patted her horse while I led it ; 

And Max, who rode on her other hand, 

Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 

What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired — 

If that was an eagle she saw^ hover. 

And the green and gray "bird on the field was the plover, 

When sucldenly appeared the Duke : 

And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed 

On to my hand, — as with a rebuke, 

And as if his backbone were not jointed, 

The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, 

And welcomed her with his grandest smile ; 

And, mind you, his mother all the while 

Chilled in the rear, like a wind to nor'ward ; 

And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys 

W^ent, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis ; 

And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, 

The lady's face stopped its play. 

As if her first hair had grown gray ; 

For such things must begin some one day. 

VII. 

In a day or two she was well again ; 

As who should say, " You labor in vain ! 

This is all a jest against God, who meant 

I should ever be, as I am, content 

And glad in his sight ; therefore, glad I will be." 

So, smiling as at first went she. 

VIII. 

She was active, stirring, all fire — 

Could not rest, could not tire — 

To a stone she might have given life I 

(I myself loved once, in my day) 

— For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, 

(I had a wife, I know what I say) 

Never in all the world such an one ! 

And here was plenty to be done, 

And she that could do it, great or small. 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his post, 



24 Th. 'light oj the Duchess. 



'This in his station, and that in his office, 
And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, 
To meet his eye, with the other trophies, 
Now outside the hall, now in it, 
To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen. 
At the proper place in the proper mmute. 
And die away the life between. 
And it was amusino- enough, each mfraction 
Of rule— (but for after-sadness that came) 
To hear the consummate self-satisfaction 
With which the young Duke and the old dame 
Would let her advise, antl criticise, 
And, being a fool, instruct the wise. 
And, childlike, parcel out praise or blame : 
They bore it all in complacent guise, 
As though an artificer, after contriving 
A wheel-work image as if it were living, ., , . , 

Should find with delight it could motion to strike him ! 
So found the Duke, and his mother like him : 
The lady hardly got a rebuff- 
That had not been contemptuous enough, 
With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, 
And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. 

IX. 

So, the little lady grew silent and thin, 

Paling and ever paling, 
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 

And the Duke perceived that she was ailing. 
And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to spite me, 
But I shall find in my power to right me ! ' 
Don't swear, friend ! The old one, many a year. 
Is in hell ; and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. 

X. 

Well early in autumn, at first winter-warning. 

When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, 

A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice. 

That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, 

Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, 

And another and another, and faster and faster 

Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled. 

Then it so chanced that the Duke our master 

Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, 

And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, 

He should do the Middle Age no treason 

Tn resolving on a hunting-party. 



The Flight of the Dw \$s. 25 



Always provided, old books showed the way of it! 
What meant old poets by their strictures? 
And when old poets had said their say of it, 
How taught old painters in their pictures ? 
We must revert to tlie proper channels, 
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, 
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions : 
Here was food for our various ambitions, 
As on each case, exactly stated — 
To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, 
Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your stirrup — 
We of the household took thought and debated. 
Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 
His sire was wont to do forest-work in ; 
Blesseder he who nobly sunk " ohs " 
And " ahs " while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk- 
hose ; 
What signified hats if they had no rims on, 
Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, 
And able to serve at sea for a shallop, 
Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson } 
So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't, 
W^hat with our Venerers, Prickers, and Verderers, 
Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, 
And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't ! 

XI. 

Now you must know that when the first dizziness 

Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided. 

The Duke put this question, " The Duke's part provided, 

Had not the Duchess some share in the business } " 

For out of tiie mouth of two or three witnesses 

Did he establish all fit-or-uniitnesses ; 

And, after much laying of heads together. 

Somebody's cap got a notable feather 

By the announcement with proper unction 

That he had discovered the lady's function ; 

Since ancient authors gave this tenet, 

" When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege. 

Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, 

And with water to wash the hands of her liege 

In a clean ewer with a fair toweling. 

Let her preside at the disemboweling." 

Now, my friend, if you had so little religion 

As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner. 

And thrust her broad wings like a banner 

Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; 



2 6 The Flight of the Duchess. 



And if day by day and week by week 
You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes,^ 
And cHpped her wings, and tied her beak, 
Woukl it cause you any great surprise 
If when you decided to give her an aumg, 
You found she needed a httle preparing ? 
—I say, shoukl you be such a curmudgeon, 
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in .dudgeon ? 
Yet when the Duke to his lady signified. 
Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, 
In what a pleasure she was to participate,— 
And, instead of leaping wide in fiashes, 
Her eyes just lifted their long lashes. 
As if pressed bv fatigue even he could not dissipate, 
And dulv acknowledged the Duke's forethought 
But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, 
Of the weight by day and the watch by night, 
And much wrong now that used to be right, 
So, thanking him, declined the hunting,— 
Was conduct ever more affronting. 
With all the ceremony settled— 
With the towel ready, and the sewer 
Polishing up his oldest ewer, 
And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, 
Black-barred, cream-coated, and pmk eye-balled,— 
No wonder if the Duke was nettled ! 
And when she persisted nevertheless,— 
Well, I suppose here's the time to confess 
That' there ran half round our lady's chamber 
A balconv none of the hardest to clamber; 
And that'jacvnth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, 
Staid in call outside, what need of relating ? 
And since Jacvnth was like a June rose, why, a tervent 
Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant ; 
And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, 
How could ] keep at any vast distance ? 
And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence. 
The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement. 
Stood for a while in a sultry smother, 
And then, with a smile that partook of the awtul, 
Turned her over to his yellow mother 
To learn what was decorous and lawful ; 
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, ^ 
As her cheek quick whitened through all its quince-tinct. 
Oh, but the ladv heard the whole truth at once ! 
What meant she? -Who was she ?- Her duty and 
station. 



The Flight of the Duchess. 2 7 

The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, 

Its decent regard and its fitting relation — 

In brief, my friends, set all the devils in hell free 

And turn them out to carouse in a belfry 

And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon. 

And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on ! 

Well, somehow or other it ended at last. 

And, licking her whiskers, out she passed ; 

And after her, — making (he hoped) a face 

Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, 

Stalked the Duke's self wnth the austere grace 

Of ancient hero or modern paladin, 

From door to staircase — oh such a solemn 

Unbending of the vertebral column ! 

XII. 

How^ever, at sunrise our company mustered ; 
And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel. 
And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered. 
With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel ; 
For the court-yard walls were filled with fog 
You might cut as an ax chops a log — 
Like so much wool for color and bulkiness : 
And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness ; 
Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, 
And a sinking at the lower abdomen 
Begins the day with indifferent omen. 
And lo ! as he looked around uneasily, 
The sun plowed the fog up and drove it asunder, 
This way and that, from the valley under; 
And, looking through the court-yard arch, 
Down in the valley, what should meet him 
But a troop of gypsies on their march } 
No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. 

XIII. 
Now^ in your land, gypsies reach you, only 
After reaching all lands beside : 
North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely, 
And still, as they travel far and wide. 
Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, 
That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there. 
But with us,T believe they rise out of the ground, 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned ; 
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed on. 



28 The Flight of the Duchess. 

For the earth — not a use to which they don't turn it, 

The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, 

Or the sand in the pits Hke a honey-comb, 

They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it — 

Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle 

With side-bars never a brute can baffle ; 

Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards ; 

Or, if your colt's fore foot incUnes to curve inwards, 

Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel 

And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 

Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle 

That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; 

But the sand — they pinch and pound it like otters ; 

Commend me to gypsy glass-makers and potters ! 

Glasses they'll blow you, crystal, clear. 

Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, 

As if in pure water you dropped and let die 

A bruised black-blooded mulberry; 

And that other sort, their crowning pride, 

With long white threads distinct inside, 

Like the lake-fiower's fibrous roots which dangle 

Loose such a length and never tangle, 

Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, 

And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters 

Such are the works they put their hand to, 

The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 

And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally 

Toward his castle from out of the valley. 

Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, 

Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 

And up they wound till they reached the ditch, 

Whereat all stopped save one, a witch 

That I knew, as she hobbled from the group. 

By her gait directly and her stoop, 

I, whom Jacynth was used to importune 

To let that same witch tell us our fortune. 

The oldest gypsy then above ground ; 

And, sure as the autumn season came round, 

She paid us a visit for profit or pastime. 

And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 

And presently she was seen to sidle 

Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle. 

So that the horse of a sudden reared up 

As under its nose the old witch peered up 

With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes, 

Of no use now but to gather brine, 

And began a kind of level whine 



The Flight of the Duchess. 



29 



Such as they used to sing to their 

viols 
When their ditties they go grinding 
Up and down with nobody minding ; 
And then, as of old, at the end of the 

humming 
Her usual presents were forthcoming 
— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest 

of trebles 
(Just a seashore stone holding a 

dozen hne pebbles). 
Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw 

on a pipe-end, — 
And so she awaited her annual 

stipend. 
But this time the Duke would 

scarcely vouchsafe 
A word in reply; and in vain she felt 
With twitching fingers at her belt 
For the purse of sleek pine-martin 

pelt, 
Ready to put wiiat he gave in her 

pouch safe, — 
Till, either to quicken his apprehen- 
sion, 
Or possibly with an after-intention, 
She was come, she said, to pay her 

duty 
To the new^ Duchess, the youthful 

beauty. 
No sooner had she named his lady. 
Than a shine lit up the face so shady, 
And its smirk returned with a novel 

meaning — 
For it struck him, the babe just 
wanted weaning ; 

If one gave her a taste of wdiat 

She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow 

And who so fit a teacher of trouble 




The oldest gypsy then above 

GROUND. 

life w^as and sorrow, 



As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double ? 
So, glancing at her w^olf-skin vesture 
(If such it w^as, for they grow so hirsute 
That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) 
He w^as contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, 
The life of the lady so flow^er-like and delicate 
With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. 
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 



30 The Flight of the Duchess. 

From out of the throng ; and while I drew near 

He told the crone — as I since have reckoned 

By the way he bent and spoke into her ear 

With circumspection and mystery — 

The main of the lady's history, 

Her frowardness and ingratitude ; 

And for all the crone's submissive attitude 

I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, 

And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening, 

As though she engaged with hearty good will 

Whatever he now niight enjoin to fulfill, 

And promised the lady a thorough frightening. 

And so, just giving her a glimpse 

Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps 

The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, 

He bade me take the gypsy mother 

And set her telling some story or other 

Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, 

To w4iile away a weary hour 

For the lady left alone in her bower, 

Whose mind and body craved exertion 

And yet shrank from all better divei'sion. 

XIV. 

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, 

Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo 

Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, 

And back I turned and bade the crone follow. 

And what makes me confident what's to be told you 

Had all along been of this crone's devising, 

Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, 

There was a novelty quick as surprising : 

For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, 

And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, 

As if age had foregone its usurpature, 

And the ignoble mien was wholly altered. 

And the face looked quite of another nature, 

And the change reached too, whatever the change 

meant. 
Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement : 
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges. 
Gold coins were glittering on the edges. 
Like the band-roll strung with tomans 
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's : 
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly 
Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 



The Fliglit of the Duchess, 3 1 

Live and aware looked out of their places. 

So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry 

Of the lady's chamber standing sentry ; 

I told the command and produced my companion, 

And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, 

For since last night, by the same token. 

Not a single word had the lady spoken : 

They went in both to the presence together, 

While I in the balcony watched the weather. 

XV. 

And now, what took place at the very first of all, 

I cannot tell, as I never could learn it : 

Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall 

On that little head of hers and burn it 

If she knew how she came to drop so soundly 

Asleep of a sudden, and there continue 

The whole time, sleeping as profoundly 

As one of the boars my father would pin you 

'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, 

— Jacynth forgive me the comparison ! 

But where I begin my own narration 

Is a little after I took my station 

To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, 

And, having in those days a falcon eye. 

To follow the hunt through the open country, 

From where tlie bushes thinlier crested 

The hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. 

When, in a moment, my ear was arrested 

By — was it singing, or was it saying, 

Or a strange musical instrument playing 

In the chamber? — and to be certain 

I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, 

And there lay Jacynth asleep. 

Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, 

In a rosy sleep along the floor 

With her head against the door; 

While in the midst, on the seat of state. 

Was a queen — the gypsy woman late, 

With head and face downbent 

On the lady's head and face intent : 

For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, 

The lady sat between her knees. 

And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, 

And on those hands her chin was set. 

And her upturned face met the face of the crone 

Wherein tlie eyes had growni and grown 




^^ 




I. 




^# 



a. 




.^^ ^^ 



And her upturned face met the face of the crone. 



The Flight of the Duchess. 33 

As if she could double and quadruple 
At pleasure the play of either pupil 
— Very like, by her hands' slow fanning, 
As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers 
They moved to measure, or bell-clappers. 
I said, " Is it blessing, is it banning, 
Do they applaud you or burlesque you — 
Those hands and fingers with no flesh on ? " 
But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue, 
At once I was stopped by the lady's expression: 
For it was life her eyes were drinking 
From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, 
— Life's pure fire, received without shrinking, 
Into the heart and breast whose heaving 
Told you no single drop they were leaving, 
— Life, that filling her, passed redundant 
Into her very hair, back swerving 
Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, 
As her head thrown back showed the white throat curv- 
ing ; 
And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, 
Moving to the mystic measure, 
Bounding as the bosom bounded. 
I stopped short, more and more confounded, 
As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, 
As she listened and she listened : 
When all at once a hand detained me, 
The selfsame contagion gained me, 
And I kept time to the wondrous chime. 
Making out words and prose and rhyme, 
Till it seemed that the music furled 
Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 
From under the words it first had propped. 
And left them midway in the world, 
Word took word as hand takes hand, 
I could hear at last, and understand. 
And when I held the unbroken thread, 
The gypsy said, — 

*' And so at last we find my tribe. 
And so I set thee in the midst. 
And to one and all of them describe 
W^hat thou saidst and what thou didst. 
Our long and terrible journey through, 
And all thou art ready to say and do 
In the trials that remain : 
I trace them the vein and the other vein 



34 The Flight of the Duchess, 



That meet on thy brow and part again, 

Making our rapid mystic mark ; 

And I bid my people prove and probe 

Each eye's profound and glorious globe, 

Till they detect the kindred spark 

In those depths so dear and dark, 

Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, 

Circling over the midnight sea. 

And on that round young cheek of thine 

I make them recognize the tinge, 

As when of the costly scarlet wine 

They drip so much as will impinge 

And' spread in a thinnest scale afloat 

One thick gold drop from the olive's coat 

Over a silver plate whose sheen 

Still through the mixture shall be seen. 

For so I prove thee, to one and all, 

Fit, when my people ope their breast, 

To see the sign, and hear the call. 

And take the vow, and stand the test 

Which adds one more child to the rest — 

When the breast is bare and the arms are wide. 

And the world is left outside. 

For there is probation to decree, 

And many and long must the trials be 

Thou shalt victoriously endure. 

If that brow is true and those eyes are sure ; 

Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay 

Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb, — 

Let once the vindicating ray 

Leap out amid the anxious gloom. 

And steel and fire have done their part, 

And the prize falls on its finder's heart ; 

So, trial after trial past, 

Wilt thou fall at the very last 

Breathless, half in trance 

With the thrill of the great deliverance. 

Into our arms for evermore ; 

And thou shalt know, those arms once curled 

About thee, what we knew before, 

How love is the only good in the world. 

Henceforth be loved as heart can love 

Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 

Stand up, look below, 

It is our life at thy feet we throw 

To step with into light and joy; 

Not a power of life but we employ 



The Flight of the Duchess. 35 

To satisfy thy nature's want ; 

Art thou the tree that props the plant, 

Or the cUmbing plant that seeks the tree — 

Canst thou help us, must \ve help thee? 

If any two creatures grew into one, 

They would do more than the world has done; 

Though each apart were never so weak, 

Ye vainly through the world should seek 

For the knowledge and the might 

Which in such union grew their right ; 

So, to approach at least that end, 

And blend, — as much as may be, blend 

Thee with us or us with thee, — 

As climbing plant or propping tree, 

Shall someone deck thee over and down. 

Up and about, with blossoms and leaves ? 

Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland crown, 

Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, 

Die on thy boughs and disappear 

While not a leaf of thine is sere ? 

Or is the other fate in store, 

And art thou titted to adore. 

To give thy wondrous self away, 

And take a stronger nature's swa\- ? 

I foresee and could foretell 

Thy future portion, sure and well : 

But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, 

Let them say what thou shalt do ! 

Only be sure thy daily life. 

In its peace or in its strife, 

Never shall be unobserved ; 

We pursue thy whole career, 

And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, — 

Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerxed. 

We are beside thee in all thy ways, 

W^ith our blame, with our praise, 

Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 

Glad, angry— but indifferent, no ! 

W^hether it be thy lot to go. 

For the good of us all, where the haters meet 

In the crowded city's horrible street ; 

Or thou step alone through the morass 

Where never sound yet was 

Save the dry, quick clap of the stork's bill, 

For the air is still, and the water still, 

WHien the blue breast of the dipping coot 

Dives under, and all is mute. 



36 



The Flight of the Duchess, 




For the air is still, and the water still. 

So at the last shall come old age, 

Decrepit as befits that stage ; 

How else wouldst thou retire apart 

With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 

And gather all to the very least 

Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, 

Let fall through eagerness to find 

The crowning dainties yet behind ? 

Ponder on the entire past 

Laid together thus at last, 

When the twilight helps to fuse 

The first fresh with the faded hues, 

And the outline of the whole. 



The Flight of the Duchess. ' 3 7 

As round eve's shades their frame-work roll, 
Grandly fronts for once thy soul. 
And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 
Of yet another morning- breaks, 
And like the hand which ends a dream, 
Death, with the might of his sunbeam, 
Touches the flesh and the soul awakes. 
Then " — 

Ay, then indeed something would happen ! 
But what ? For here her voice changed like a bird's ; 
There grew more of the music and less of the words ; 
Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen 
To paper and put you down every syllable 
With those clever clerkly fingers, 
All I've forgotten as well as what lingers 
In this old brain of mine that's but ill able 
To give you even this poor version 
Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering ! 
— More fault of those who had the hammering 
Of prosody into me and syntax, 
And did it, not with hobnails but tin-tacks ! 
But to return from this excursion, — 
Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest. 
The peace most deep and the charm completest. 
There came, shall I say, a snap — 
And the charm vanished ! 

And my sense returned, so strangely banished. 
And, starting as from a nap, 
I knew the crone w^as bewitching my lady. 
With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made I 
Down from the casement, round to the portal. 
Another minute and I had entered, — 
When the door opened, and more than mortal 
Stood, with a face where to my mind centered 
All beauties I ever saw or shall see, 
The Duchess : I stopped as if struck by palsy. 
She was so different, happy and beautiful, 
I felt at once that all was best, 
And that I had nothing to do, for the rest. 
But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 
Not that, in fact, there was any commanding ; 
I saw the glory of her eye. 

And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, 
And I was hers to live or to die. 
As for finding what she w^anted. 
You know God Almighty granted 
Such little signs should serve wild creatures 



The Flight of the Duchess. 



To tell one another all their desires, 

So that each knows what his friend requires, 

And does its bidding without teachers. 

I preceded her ; the crone 

Followed silent and alone ; 

I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered 

In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk 

Back to their pits ; her stature shrunk ; 

In short, the soul in its body sunk 

Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. 

We descended, I preceding ; 

Crossed the court with nobody heeding ; 

All the w^orld was at the chase. 

The court-yard like a desert-place. 

The stable emptied of its small fry ; 

I saddled myself the very palfrey 

I remember patting wdiile it carried her, 

The day she arrived and the Duke mariied her. 

And, do you know, though it's easy deceiving 

One's self in such matters, I can't help believing 

The lady had not forgotten it either. 

And knew the poor devil so much beneath her 

Would have been only too glad, for her service, , 

To dance on hot plowshares like a Turk dervise. 

But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, 

Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it. 

For though, the moment I began setting 

His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting 

(Not that I meant to be obtrusive), 

She stopped me, w^hile his rug was shifting, 

By a single rapid finger's lifting, 

And, wMth a gesture kind but conclusive. 

And a little shake of the head, refused me, — 

I say, although she never used me. 

Yet wdien she w^as mounted, the gypsy behind her, 

And I ventured to remind her, 

I suppose with a voice of less steadiness 

Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, 

— Something to the effect that I was in readiness 

Whenever God should please she needed me, — 

Then, do you know, her face looked down on me 

With a look that placed a crown on me. 

And she felt in her bosom, — mark, her bosom — 

And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom. 

Dropped me . . . ah ! had it been a purse 

Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse. 

Why, you see, as soon as I found myself 



The Flight of the Duchess. 39 



So understood,— that a true heart so may gain 

Such a reward,— I should have gone home again, 

Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself ! 

It was a little plait of hair 

Such as friends in a convent make 

To wear, each for the other's sake, — 

This, see, which at my breast I wear, 

Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), 

And ever shall till the Day of Judgment. 

And then,— and then,— to cut short,— this is idle. 

These are feelings it is not good to foster,— 

I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, 

And the palfrey bounded,— and so we lost her. 

XVI. 
When the liquor's out why chnk the cannikin ? 
I did think to describe you the panic in 
The redoubtable breast of our master the manikin. 
And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, 
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib 
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, 
When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness 
— But it seems such child's play, 
What they said and did with the lady away ! 
And to dance on, when we've lost the music, 
Always made me— and no doubt makes you— sick. 
Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern 
As that sw^eet form disappeared through the postern, 
She that kept it in constant good-humor, 
It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do 

more. 
But the world thought otherwise and went on, 
And my head's one that its spite was spent on : 
Thirty years are fled since that morning, 
And with them all my head's adorning. 
Nor did the old Duchess die outright, 
As you expect, of suppressed spite, 
The natural end of every adder 
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder : 
But she and her son agreed, I take it. 
That no one should touch on the story to wake it, 
For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled tiery ; 
So, they made no search and small inquiry : 
And when fresh gypsies have paid us a visit, I've 
Noticed the couple were never inquisitive, 
But told them they're folks the Duke don't want here, 
And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. 



40 The Flight of the Duchess. 

Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, 

And the old one was in the young one's stead, 

And took, in her place, the household's head, 

And a blessed time the household had of it ! 

And were I not, as a man may say, cautious 

How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, 

I could favor you with sundry touches 

Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess 

Heightened the mellowness of lier cheek's yellowness 

(To get on faster) until at last her 

Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 

Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse : 

In short, she grew from scalp to udder 

Just the object to make you shudder. 

XVII. 

You're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world without end ! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up 

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, 

And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit. 

Our green Moldavia, the streaky sirup, 

Cotnar as old as the thiie of the Druids — 

Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids ; 

Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs. 

Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand 

doubts 
Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees 
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. 
I have seen my little lady once more, 
Jacynth, the gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it. 
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before ; 
I always wanted to make a clean breast of it : 
And now it is made— w^hy, my heart's blood, that went 

trickle, 
Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 
Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, 
And genially floats me about the giblets. 
I'll tell you what I intend to do : 
I must see this fellow his sad life through — 
He is our Duke, after all, 
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. 
My father was born here, and I inherit 
His fame, a chain he bound his son with ; 
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it. 
But there's no mine to blow up and get done with : 
So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. 



The Flight of the Duchess, 4 1 

For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, 

Be it a thing- to be glad on or sorry on, 

Some day or other, his head in a morion 

And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, 

Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. 

And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, 

And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue 

crust, 
Then I shall scrape together my earnings ; 
For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes. 
And our children all went the way of the roses : 
It's a long lane that knows no turnings. 
One needs but little tackle to travel in ; 
So, just one stout cloak shall I indue : 
And for a staff, what beats the javelin 
With which his boars my father pinned you ? 
And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, 
Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, 
I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly ! 
Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 
Wliat's a man's age ? He must hurry more, that's all ; 
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold : 
When we mind labor, then only, we're too old — 
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul } 
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees 
(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil), 
I hope to get safely out of the turmoil 
And arrive one day at the land of the gypsies, 
And find my lady, or hear the last news of her 
From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 
His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, 
Sunburned all over like an ^thiop. 
And when my Cotnar begins to operate 
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate. 
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, 
I shall drop in wnth — as if by accident — 
** You never knew, then, how it all ended, 
What fortune good or bad attended 
The little lady your Queen befriended ? " 
— And when that's told me, what's remaining.^ 
This world's too hard for my explaining. 
The same wise judge of matters equine 
Who still preferred some slim four-year-old 
To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, 
And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, 
He also must be such a lady's scorner ! 
Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau : 



42 



'^ How they brought the Good News.' 




X/ 



,_...J^P^^ 



The year's at the spring. 



Now up, now down, tlie world's 

one seesaw. 
— So, I shall find out some snug- 
corner 
Under a hedge, like Orson the 

wood-knight, 
Turn ni3'self round and bid the 

world good-night, 
And sleep a sound sleep till the 

trumpet's blowing 
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us 

laymen) 
To a world where will be no 

further throwing 
Pearls before swine that can't 

value them. Amen I 

SONG FROM ''PIPPA 
PASSES." 
The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
.Morning's at seven ; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world. 



"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX." 

[1 6-.] 
I. 
I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 
*' Good speed I " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; 
*' Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

II. > 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 



^'How they brougJit the Good News.'' 43 

III. 
'Twas moonset at starting ; but, while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocl<s crew, and twihght dawned clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 
So, Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 

IV. 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 

V. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

VI. 
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, '* Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. 
We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

VII. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the t)rittle bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 

And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight! 

VIII. 

How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
^nd with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 



44 Through the Aletidja to Abd-el-Kadr. 

IX. 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

X. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 

SONG FROM •' PARACELSUS." 
I. 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 

Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, 
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 

From out her hair : such balsam falls 

Down seaside mountain pedestals. 
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, 
Spent with the vast and howling main, 
To treasure half their island gain. 

IT. 

And strew^ faint sweetness from some old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled ; 

Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 

From closet long to quiet vowed. 
With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
Moldering her lute and books among, 
As when a queen, long dead, was young. 

THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. 

[1842.] 

I. 

As I ride, as I ride, 
With a full heart for my guide, 
So its tide rocks my side, 
As I ride, as I ride, 




'^' 



Called my Roland his pet-name, my hokse wiihout peer, 



46 Through the Mctidja to Abd-el-Kadr. 



That, as I were double-eyed,^ 
He, in whom our Tribes confide, 
Is descried, ways untried 
As I ride, as I ride. 

II. 

As I ride, as I ride 

To our Chief and his AlHed, 

Who dares chide my heart's pride 

As I ride, as I ride ? 

Or are witnesses denied — 

Through the desert waste and wide 

Do I glide unespied 

As I ride, as I ride ? 

III. 

As I ride, as I ride, 

When an inner voice has cried, 

The sands slide, nor abide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

O'er each visioned homicide 

That came vaunting (has he lied ?) 

To reside — where he died, 

As I ride, as I ride. 

IV. 

As I ride, as I ride. 

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, 

Yet his hide, streaked and pied, 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, 

—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed— 

How has vied stride with stride 

As I ride, as I ride I 

V. 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Could I loose what Fate has tied, 

Ere I pride, she should hide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

All that's meant me — satisfied 

When the Prophet and the Bride 

Stop veins I'd have subside 

As I ride, as 1 ride ! 



Incident of the French Camp. 47 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 
I. 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

II. 

Just as perhaps he mused, ** My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

HI. 

Then off there ^.ung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy ; 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

IV. 

"Well," cried he, ** Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed : his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

V. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes. 



The Lost Leader, 



" You're wounded ! "— '' Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said, 
*' I'm killed, Sire ! " And his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

THE LOST LEADER. 
I. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others, she lets us devote ; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. 

So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him. 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakspere was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us,— they watch from their 
graves ! 
He alone breaks from, the van and the freemen. 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 

II. 
We shall march prospering,— not through his presence ; 

Songs may inspirit us,— not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done,— \yhile he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire ; 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod. 
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,^ 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight. 

Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best figln on well, for we taught him— strike gallantly, 

Menace our heart ere we master his ov.'n ; 
Then let him receive the new^ knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 



In a Gondola. 



49 



IN A GONDOLA 




He sings. 
I SEND my^ heart up to thee, all my heart 

In this my singing. 
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part ; 

The very night is clinging 
Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space 

Above me, whence thy face 
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. 

She speaks. 
Say after me, and try to say 
My very words, as if each word 
Came from you of your own accord, 
In your own voice, in your own way : 
'* This woman's heart and soul and brain 
Are mine as much as this gold chain 
She bids me wear ; which " (say again) 
** I choose to make by cherishing 
A precious thing, or choose to fling 
Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 
And yet once more say ... no word more ! 
Since words are only words. Give o'er ! 
Unless you call me, all the same. 
Familiarly by my pet name, 
Which if the Three should hear you call. 
And me reply to, would proclaim 
At once our secret to them all. 
Ask of me, too, command me, blame — 
Do, break down the partition-wall 
'Twixt us, the daylight w^orld beholds 
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! 



50 In a Gondola. 



What's left but — all of me to take ? 
I am the Three's : prevent them, slake 
Your thirst ! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, 
In practicing- with gems can loose 
Their subtle spirit in his cruce 
And leave but ashes ; so, sweet mage, 
Leave them my ashes when thy use 
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! 

He . Sings. 
I. 
Past we glide, and past, and past ! 
What's that poor Agnese doing 
W^here they make the shutters fast ? 

Gray Zanobi's just a-\vooing 
To his couch the purchased bride : 
Past we glide ! 

II. 
Past we glide, and past, and past ! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring 
Like a beacon to the blast ? 

Guests by hundreds, not one caring 
If the dear host's neck were wried : 

Past we glide ! 

She Sings. 
I. 
The moth's kiss, first ! 
Kiss me as if you made believe 
You were not sure this eve. 
How my face, your flower, had pursed 
Its petals up ; so, here and there 
You brush it till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 

II. 
The bee's kiss, now ! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, 
A bud that dares not disallow 
The claim, so all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 

He Sings. 
I. 

What are we two ? 
I am a Jew, 



/;/ a Gondola. 5 1 



And carry thee farther than friends can pursue, 

To a feast of our tribe ; 

Where they need thee to bribe 

The Devil that blasts them unless he imbibe 

Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever ! And now, 

As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 

II. 

Say again, what we are ? 

The sprite of a star, 

I lure thee above where the destinies bar 

My plumes their full play 

Till a ruddier ray 

Than my pale one announce there is withering away 

Some . . . Scatter the vision forever ! And now, 

As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 

He muses. 

Oh ! which were best, to roam or rest ? 
The land's lap or the water's breast ? 
To sleep on yellow^ millet-sheaves, 
Or swim in lucid shallows, just 
Eluding water-lily leaves. 
An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust 
To lock you, whom release he must ; 
Which life were best on summer eves ? 

He speaks, 77121 sing. 

Lie back ; could thought of mine improve you ? 

From this shoulder let there spring 

A wing; from this, another wing; 

Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you ! 

Snow-white must they spring, to blend 

With yourfiesh, but I intend 

They shall deepen to the end, 

Broader, into burning gold, 

Till both wings crescent-wise infold 

Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet 

To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet 

As if a million sword-blades hurled 

Defiance from you to the world ! 

Rescue me thou, the only real ! 
And scare away this mad ideal 
That came, nor motions to depart ! 
Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art ! 



S ^ In a Gondola. 



Still he muses. 
I. 

What if the Three should catch at last 
Thy serenader ? While there's cast 
Paul's cloal<: about my head, and fast 
Gian pinions me, Himself has past 
His stylet through my back ; I reel ; 
And ... is it thou I feel } 

II. 

They trail me, these three godless knaves, 
Past every church that saints and saves, 
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 
By Lido's wet accursed graves, 
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 
And ... on thy breast I sink ! 

She replies, vtusing. 

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, 

As I do : thus : were death so unlike sleep, 

Caught this way } Death's to fear from flame or steel, 

Or poison doubtless ; but from water — feel ! 

Go find the bottom ! Would you stay me? There ! 

Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass 

To plait in where the foolish jewel was, 

I flung away : since you have praised my hair, 

'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. 

He speaks. 

Row home.^ must we row home? Too surely 

Know I where its front's demurely 

Over the Guidecca piled ; 

Window just with window mating,. 

Door on door exactly waiting, 

All's the set face of a child : 

But behind it, where's a trace 

Of the staidness and reserve, 

And formal lines without a curve. 

In the same child's playing-face ? 

No two windows look one way 

O'er the small sea- water thread 

Below them. Ah, the autumn day 

I, passing, saw you overhead ! 

First, out a cloud of curtain blew, 

Then a 'sweet cry, and last came you — 

To catch your lory that must needs 

Escape just then, of all times then, 



In a Gondola. S3 



To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds 

And make me happiest of men. 

I scarce could breathe to see you reach 

So far back o'er the balcony, 

To catch him ere he climbed too high 

Above you in the Smyrna peach, 

That quick the round smooth cord of gold. 

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled. 

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake 

The Roman girls were wont, of old, 

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake 

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms. 

Dear lory, may his beak retain 

Ever its delicate rose stain, 

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 

Had marked their thief to know again ! 

Stay longer yet, for others' sake 

Than mine ! What should your chamber do ? 

— With all its rarities that ache 

In silence while day lasts, but wake 

At night-time and their life renew, 

Suspended just to pleasure you 

Who brought against their will together 

These objects, and, while day lasts, weave 

Around them such a magic tether 

That dumb they look : your harp, believe, 

With all the sensitive tight strings 

Which dare not speak, now to itself 

Breathes slumberously, as if some elf 

Went in and out the chords, his wings 

Make murmur, w-heresoe'er they graze. 

As an angel may, between the maze 

Of midnight palace-pillars, on 

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone 

Through guilty glorious Babylon. 

And while such murmurs flow, the nymph 

Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell 

As the dry limpet for the lymph 

Come with a tune he knows so well. 

And how your statues' hearts must swell ! 

And how your pictures must descend 

To see each other, friend with friend ! 

Oh, could you take them by surprise. 

You'd find Schidone's eager Duke 

Doing the quaintest courtesies 

To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke ! 



54 



/;/ a Gondola. 



And, deeper into her rock den, 
Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 
You'd find retreated from the ken 
Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser — 
As if the Tizian thinks of her. 
And is not, rather, gravely bent 
On seeing for himself what toys 
Are these, his progeny invent, 
What litter now the board employs 
Whereon he signed a document 
That got him murdered ! Each enjoys 
Its night so well, you cannot break 
The sport up: so, indeed must make 
More stay with me, for others' sake. 

She speaks. 
I. 
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 
Is used to tie the jasmine back 
That overfloods my room with sweets. 
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 
My Zanze ! If the ribbon's black. 
The Three are watching : keep away ! 

II. 

Your gondola— let Zorzi wreathe 

A mesh of water-weeds about 

Its prow, as if he unaware 

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! 

That I may throw a paper out 

As you and he go underneath. 

There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. 
Only one minute more to-night with me ? 
Resume your past self of a month ago ! 
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 
The lady with the colder breast than snow. 
Now bow you, as l^ecomes, nor touch my hand 
More than' I touch yours when I step to land. 
And say, " All thanks, Siora ! "—Heart to heart 
And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere we part. 
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art ! 

He is surprised, and stabbed. 
It was ordained to be so, sweet !— and best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast, 
Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! Care 
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 



A Lovers' Quarrel. 55 

My blood will hurt ! The Three, I do not scorn, 

To death, because they never lived : but I 

Have lived indeed, and so — (yet one more kiss) — can die ! 

A LOVERS' QUARREL. 

I. 

Oh, what a dawn of day ! 

How the March sun feels like May ! 

All is blue again 

After last night's rain, 
And the South dries the hawthorn spray 

Only, my Love's away ! 
I'd as lief that the blue were gray. 

II. 
Runnels, which rillets sw^ell, 
Must be dancing down the dell, 

With a foaming head 

On the beryl bed 
Paven smooth as a hermit's cell : 

Each with a tale to tell, 
Could my Love but attend as well. 

III. 

Dearest, three months ago, 

When we lived blocked up with snow% — 

When the wind would ^^^^ 

In and in his wedge, 
In, as far as the point could go — 

Not to our ingle, though. 
Where we loved each the other so ! 

IV. 

Laughs with so little cause ! 
We devised games out of straws. 

We would try and trace 

One another's face 
In the ash, as an artist draws ; 

Free on each other's fiaws, 
How we chattered like two church daws ! 

V. 

What's in the *' Times " ? — a scold 
At the Emperor deep and cold ; 

He has taken a bride 

To his grewsome side, 



56 



A Lovers' QuarreL 



That's as fair as himself is bold : 

There they sit ermine-stoled, 
And she powders her hair with gold. 

VI. 

Fancy the Pampas' sheen ! 

Miles and miles of gold and green 
Where the sunflowers blow 
In a solid glow, 

And to break now and then the screen- 
Black neck and eyeballs keen, 

Up a wild horse leaps between ! 

VII. 

Try, will our table turn ? 

Lay your hands there light, and yearn 

Till the yearning slips 

Through the finger-tips 
In a fire which a few discern. 

And a very few feel burn, 
And the rest, they may live and learn ! 

VIII. 
Then we would up and pace. 
For a change, about the place, 
Each with arm o'er neck : 
'Tis our quarter-deck, 

We are seamen in woeful case. 

Help in the ocean-space ! 
Or, if no help, we'll embrace. 

IX. 

See, how she looks now% dressed 
In a sledging-cap and vest ! 
'Tis a huge fur cloak- 
Like a reindeer's roke 
Falls the lappet along the 
breast : 
Sleeves for her arts to rest, 
"^ . Or to hang, as my Love likes 
«" best. 

X. 




Teach me to flirt a fan 
As THE Spanish ladies can. 



Teach me to flirt a fan 
As the Spanish ladies can, 
Or I tint your lip 
With a burnt stick's tip 



A Lovers' Qua^^reL 57 

And you turn into such a man ! 1 

Just the two spots that span • 

Half the bill of the young- male swan. ] 

XI. ' 

Dearest, three months ago ] 

When the mesmerizer Snow i 

With his hand's first sweep j 

Put the earth to sleep • \ 

'Twas a time when the heart could show 

All — how was earth to know, I 

'Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro } \ 

Xll. 

Dearest, three months ago 

When we loved each other so, j 

Lived and loved the same 

Till an evening came { 

W^hen a shaft from the Devil's bow j 

Pierced to our ingle-glow. 
And the friends were friend and foe ! 

XIII. 

Not from the heart beneath — j 

'Twas a bubble born of breath, ' 

Neither sneer nor vaunt, i 

Nor reproach nor taunt. i 

See a word, how it severeth ! 
Oh, power of life and death 

In the tongue, as the Preacher saith ! 1 

XIV. j 

Woman, and will you cast j 

For a word, quite off at last 1 

Me, your own, your You, — i 

Since, as truth is true, ; 

I was You all the happy past — . 
Me do you leave aghast 

With the memories W^e amassed } \ 

XV. I 

Love, if you knew the light \ 

That your soul casts in my sight, i 

How I look to you ^ 

For the pure and true, i 

And the beauteous and the right, — .1 

Bear with a moment's spite ' 

When a mere mote threats the white [ 



58 A Lovers' QuarreL 



XVI. 

What of a hasty word ? 

Is the fleshly heart not stirred 
By a worm's pin-prick 
Where its roots are quick ? 

See the eye, by a fly's-foot blurred — 
Ear, when a straw is heard 

Scratch the brain's coat of curd ! 

XVII. 

Foul be the world or fair 
More or less, how can I care ? 

'Tis the world the same 

For my praise or blame, 
And endurance is easy there. 

Wrong in the one thing rare — 
Oh, it is hard to bear ! 

XVIII. 

Here's the spring back or close, 
When the almond-blossom blows ; 

We shall have the word 

In a minor third 
There is none but the cuckoo knows : 

Heaps of the guelder-rose ! 
I must bear. with it, I suppose. 

XIX. 

Could but November come, 
W^ere the noisy birds struck dumb 

At the warning slash 

Of his driver's-lash — 
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb 

Facing the castle glum 
And the giant's fee-faw-fum ! 

XX. 

Then, were the world well stripped 
Of the gear wherein equipped 

We can stand apart. 

Heart dispense with heart 
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped, 

Oh, the world's hangings ripped, 
W^e were both in a bare- walled crypt ! 

XXI. 

Each in the crypt would cry, 

♦' F)Ut one freezes here ! ancl why } 



The Last Ride Together. 5 9 

When a heart, as chill, 

At my own would thrill 
Back to life, and its fires out-fly ? 

Heart, shall we live or die ? 
The rest . . . settle by and by ! " 

XXII. 

So, she'd efface the score. 
And forgive me as before. 

It is twelve o'clock : 

I shall hear her knock 
In the worst of a storm's uproar : 

I shall pull her through the door, 
I shall have her for evermore ! 



EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. 

FAME. 

See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, 
Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime ; 
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods 
Have struggled through its binding osier rods ; 
Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, 
Wanting the brick-work promised by and by ; 
How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er plate, 
Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date ! 

LOVE. 

So, the year's done with ! 

{Love me forever !) 
All March begun with, 

April's endeavor ; 
May-WTcaths that bound me 

June needs must sever ; 
Now snows fall round me, 

Quenching June's fever — 

{Love me forever /) 

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 
I. 
I SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so. 
Since now at length my fate I know. 
Since nothing all my love avails, 
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails. 

Since this w^as written and needs must be — 
My whole heart rises up to bless 



6o The Last Ride 7 'og ether. 



Your name in pride and thankfulness ! 
Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
Only a memory of the same, 
— And this beside, if you will not blame, 
Your leave for one more last ride with me. 

II. 

My mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs 
When pity would be softening through, 
Fixed me a breathing-while or two 

With life or death in the balance : right ! 
The blood replenished me again ; 
My last thought w^as at least not vain : 
I and my mistress, side by side, 
Shall be together, breathe and ride. 
So, one day more am I deified. 

Who knows but the world may end to-night } 

III. 

Hush ! if you saw some western cloud 

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 

By many benedictions— sun's 

And moon's and evening-star's at once — 

And so, you, looking and loving best, 
Conscious grew', your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
Down on you, near and yet more near, 
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear 

Thus lay she a moment on my breast. 

IV. 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a k)ng-cramped scroll 
Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 

What need to strive with a life awry.'^ 
Had I said that, had I done this. 
So might I gain, so might I miss. 
Might she have loved me ? just as well 
She might have hated, who can tell ! 
Where had I been now if the worst befell ? 

And here we are riding, she and I. 

V. 

Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? 
Why, all men strive and who succeeds } 



The Last Ride Together. 6i 



We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew, 
Saw other regions, cities new, 

As the world rushed by on either side. 
I thought, — All labor, yet no less 
Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at the end of work, contrast 
The petty done, the undone vast, 
This present of theirs with the hopeful past ! 

I hoped she woul/d love me : here we ride. 

VI. 

What hand and brain went ever paired ? 
What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
What act proved all its thought had been } 
What will but felt the fleshy screen ? 

We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There's many a crown for who can reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! 
The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 
A soldier's doing ! what atones ? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 

My riding is better, by their leave. 

VII. 

What does it all mean, poet? W^ell, 
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell 
What we felt only ; you expressed 
You hold things beautiful the best, 

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 
'Tis something, nay 'tis much : but then, 
Have you yourself what's best for men.^ 
Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 
Than we who have never turned a rhyme .^ 

Sing, riding's a joy ! For me, I ride. 

VIII. 

And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave. 
And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine ? 
What, man of music, you grown gray 
With notes and nothing else to say, 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
"Greatly his opera's strains intend, 
But in music we know how fashions end ! " 

I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine. 



62 Mesmeris??i. 



IX. 

Who knows what's fit for us f Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — 
Still one must lead some life beyond, 

Have a bliss to die with, dim descried, 
This foot once planted on the goal, 
This glory-garland round my soul, 
Could I descry such ? Try and test I 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best .'^ 

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. 

X. 

And yet — she has not spoke so long! 
What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
At life's best, with our eyes upturned 
Whither life's flower is first discerned. 

We, fixed so, ever should so abide .'^ 
What if we still ride on, we two, 
W^ith life forever old yet new, 
Changed not in kind but in degree, 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 

Ride, ride together, forever ride } 

MESMERISM. 
I. 

All I believed is true ! 

I am able yet 

All I want, to get 
By a method as strange as new. 
Dare I trust the same to you } 

n. 
If at night, when doors are shut, 

And the wood-worm picks. 

And the death-watch ticks, 
And the bar has a flag of smut. 
And a cat's in the water-butt — 

in. 
And the socket floats and flares. 

And the house-beams groan, 

And a foot unknown 
Is surmised on the garret stairs, 
And the locks slip unawares — 



Mesmerisin. d^i 



IV. 

And the spider, to serve his ends, 

By a sudden thread, 

Arms and legs outspread, 
On the table's midst descends, 
Comes to tind, God knows what friends !- 

V. 

If since eve drew in, I say, 

I have sat and brought 

(So to speak) my thought 
To bear on the woman away, 
Till I felt my hair turn gray — 

VI. 

Till I seemed to have and hold, 

In the vacancy 

'Twixt the wall and me 
From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold 
To the foot in its muslin fold — 

VII. 

Have and hold, then and there, 

Her, from head to foot, 

Breathing and mute. 
Passive and yet aware. 
In the grasp of my steady stare — 

VIII. 

Hold and have, there and then. 

All her body and soul 

That completes my whole, 
All that women add to men. 
In the clutch of my steady ken — 

IX. 

Having and holding, till 

I imprint her fast 

On the void at last 
As the sun does whom he will 
By the calotypist's skill — 

X. 

Then, — if my heart's strength serve. 

And through all and each 

Of the veils I reach 
To her soul and never swerve, 
Knitting an iron nerve — 



04 Alesmerism. 



XI. 

Command her soul to advance 

And inform tlie shape 

Which has made escape 
And before my countenance 
Answers me glance for glance — 

XII. 

I, still with a gesture fit 

Of my hands that best 

Do my soul's behest, 
Pointing the power from it, 
While myself do steadfast sit — 

XIII. 

Steadfast and still the same 
On my object bent, 
While the hands give vent 
To my ardor and my aim 
And break into very flame — 

XIV. 

Then I reach, I must believe, 

Not her soul in vain, 

For to me again 
It reaches, and past retrieve 
Is wound in the toils I weave ; 

XV. 

And must follow as I require, 

As befits a thrall. 

Bringing flesh and all, 
Essence and earth-attire, 
To the source of the tractile fire : 

XVI. 

Till the house called hers, not mine 

With a growing weight 

Seems to suffocate 
If she break not its leaden line 
And escape from its close confine. 

XVII. 

Out of doors into the night ! 

On to the maze 

Of the wild wood-ways. 
Not turning to left nor right 
From the pathway, blind with sight- 



Mesmerism. 65 



XVIII. 

Making through rain and wind 
O'er the broken shrubs, 
'Twixt the stems and stubs, 
With a still, composed, strong mind, 
Not a care for the world behind — 

XIX. 

Swifter and still more swift, 

As the crowding peace 

Doth to joy increase 
In the wide blind eyes uplift 
Through the darkness and the drift ! 

XX. 

While I — to the shape, I, too. 

Feel my soul dilate : 

Nor a whit abate, 
And relax not a gesture due, 
As I see my belief come true. 

XXI. 

For, there ! have I drawn or no 

Life to that lip? 

Do my fingers dip 
In a flame which again they throw 
On the cheek that breaks aglow ? 

XXII. 

Ha ! was the hair so first } 

What, unfilleted, 

Made alive, and spread 
Through the void with a rich outburst, 
Chestnut gold -interspersed } 

XXIII. 

Like the doors of a casket-shrine, 

See, on either side, 

Her two arms divide 
Till the heart betwixt makes sign, 
** Take me, for I am thine 1 " 

XXIV. 

** Now — now " — the door is heard ! 

Hark, the stairs ! and near — 

Nearer — and here — 
" Now ! " and, at call the third. 
She enters without a word. 



66 By the Fireside. 



XXV. 

Oil doth she march and on 

To the fancied shape ; 

It is, past escape, 
Herself, now : the dream is done, 
And the shadow and she are one. 

XXVI. 

First, I win pray. Do Thou 

That ownest the soul, 

Yet wilt grant control 
To another, nor disallow 
P^or a time, restrain me now ! 

XXVII. 
I admonish me while I may, 

Not to squander guilt, 

Since require Thou wilt 
At my hand its price one day ! 
What the price is, who can say } 

BY THE FIRESIDE. 
I. 

How well I know what I mean to do 

When the long dark autumn evenings come; 

And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue ? 
With the music of all thy voices, dumb 

In life's November too ! 

n. 

I shall be found by the fire, suppose. 

O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age ; 

While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, 
And I turn the page, and I turn the page, 

Not verse now, only prose ! 

III. 

Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, 
*' There he is at it, deep in Greek : 

Now then, or never, out we slip 

To cut from the hazels by the creek 

A mainmast for our ship ! " 

IV. 
I shall be at it indeed, my friends ! 
Greek puts already on either side 



By the Fireside. 67 



Such a branch-work forth as soon extends 

To a vista opening far and wide, 
And I pass out where it ends. 

V. 

The outside frame, hke your hazel trees — 
But the inside archway widens fast. 

And a rarer sort succeeds to these, 
And we slope to Italy at last 

And youth, by green degrees. 

VI. 

I follow wherever I am led, 

Knowing so well the leader's hand : 
woman-country, wooed not wed, 

Loved all the more by earth's male-lands. 
Laid to their hearts instead ! 

VII. 

Look at the ruined chapel again 
Half-way up in the Alpine gorge ! 

Is that a tower, I point you plain. 
Or is it a mill, or an iron forge 

Breaks solitude in vain ? 

VIII. 

A turn, and we stand in the heart of things ; 

The woods are round us, heaped and dim 
From slab to slab how it slips and springs. 

The thread of water single and slim, 
Through the ravage some torrent brings ! 

IX. 

Does it feed the little lake below ? 

That speck of white just on its marge 
Is Bella ; see, in the evening glow, 

How^ sharp the silver spear-heads charge 
When Alp meets heaven in snow! 

X. 

On our other side is the straight-up rock ; 

And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it 
By bowlder-stones, where lichens mock 

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit 
Their teeth to the polished block. 

XI. 

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain flowers. 
And thorny balls, each three in one. 



68 By the Fireside. 



The chestnuts throw on our path in showers ! 
For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun, 
These early November hours, 

XII. 

That crimson the creeper's leaf across 
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt, 

O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss, 
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped 

Elk-needled mat of moss, 

XIII. 

By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged 
Last evening— nay, in to-day's first dew 

Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, 

Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew 

Of toad-stools peep indulged. 

XIV. 

And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge 
That takes the turn to a range beyond. 

Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge. 
Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond 

Danced over by the midge. 

XV. 

The chapel and bridge are of stone alike. 

Blackish-gray and mostly wet ; 
Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dike. 

See here again, how the lichens fret 
And the roots of the iv^y strike ! 

XVI. 

Poor little place, where its one priest comes 

On a festa-day, if he comes at all. 
To the dozen folk from their scattered homes. 

Gathered within that precinct small 
By the dozen ways one roams — 

XVII. 

To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, 
Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed. 

Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts. 
Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread 

Their gear on the rock's bare juts. 

XVIII. 
It has some pretension, too, this front. 
With its bit of fresco half-moonwise 



By the Fi?'eside. 



69 



Set over the porch, Art's early 

wont : 
Tis John in the Desert, I 

surmise, 
But has borne the weather's 

brunt — 

XIX. 

Not from the fault of the 

builder, though, 
For a pent-house properly 

projects 
Where three carved beams 

make a certain show, 
Dating — good thought of 

our architect's — 
'Five, six, nine, he lets you 

know. 




as you sit 
Reading by firelight. 



XX. 



And all day long a bird sings there, 

And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; 
The place is silent and aware ; 

It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, 
But that is its own affair. 

XXT. 

My perfect wife, my Leonor, 
O heart, my own ! O eyes, mine too ! 

Whom else could I dare look backward for, 
With whom beside should I dare pursue 

The path gray heads abhor } 

XXII. 

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them ; 

Youth, flowery all the way, there stops — 
Not they ; age threatens and they contemn, 

Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops 
One inch from our life's safe hem ! 



XXIII, 



With me, youth led . ' . I will speak now^ 
No longer watdi you as you sit 

Reading by firelight, that great brow 
And the spirit-small hand propping it, 

Mutely my heart knows how — 



70 By the Fireside. 



XXIV. 

When, if I think but deep enough, 

You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; 

And you, too, find without rebuff 

Response your soul seeks many a time, 

Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. 

XXV. 

My own, confirm me ! If I tread 

This path back, is it not in pride 
To think how little I dreamed it led 

To an age so blest that, by its side, 
Youth seems the waste instead ? 

XXVI. 

My own, see where the years conduct ! 

At first, 'twas something our two souls 
Should mix as mists do ; each is sucked 

In each now; on, the new stream rolls. 
Whatever rocks obstruct. 

XXVII. 

Think, when our one soul understands 

The great Word which makes all things new, 

W^hen earth breaks up and heaven expands, 
How will the change strike me and you 

In the house not made with hands ? 

XXVIII. 

Oh! I must feel your brain prompt mine, 

Your heart anticipate my heart. 
You must be just before, in fine, 

See and make me see, for your part, 
New depths of the divine ! 

XXIX. 

But w^ho could have expected this 

When we two drew together first 
Just for the obvious human bliss, 

To satisfy life's daily thirst 
With a thing men seldom miss ? 

XXX. 

Come back with me to the first of all, 
Let us lean and love it over again. 

Let us now forget and now recall, 
Break the rosary in a pearly rain. 

And gather what we let fall ! 



By the Fireside . 7 1 



XXXI. 

What did I say ? — that a small bird sings 
All day long, save when a brown pair 

Of hawks from the wood f^oat with wide wings 
Strained to a bell ; 'gainst noonday glare 

You count the streaks and rings. 

XXXII. 

But at afternoon or almost eve 

'Tis better ; then the silence grows 

To that degree, you half believe 
It must get rid of w^hat it knows, 

Its bosom does so heave. 

XXXIII. 

Hither we walked then, side by side, 

Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, 
And still I questioned or replied, 

While my heart, convulsed to really speak, 
Lay choking in its pride. 

XXXIV. 

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, 
And pity and praise the chapel sweet, 

And care about the fresco's loss, 

And wish for our souls a like retreat, 

And wonder at the moss. 

XXXV. 

Stoop and kneel on the settle under. 

Look through the window's grated square : 

Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder, 
The cross is down and the altar bare, 

As if thieves don't fear thunder. 

XXXVI. 

We stoop and look in through the grate. 
See the little porch and lustic door, 

Read duly the dead builder's date ; 

Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, 

Take the path again — but wait ! 

XXXVII. 

Oh moment one and infinite ! 

The w'ater slips o'er stock and stone ; 
The West is tender, hardly bright : 

How gray at once is the evening grown — 
One star, its chrysolite ! 



M 2 By the Fireside. 



XXXVIII. 

We two stood there with never a third, 
But each by each, as each knew well : 

The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, 
Thelights and the shades made up a spell 

Till the trouble grew and stirred. 
XXXIX. 

Oh, the little more, and how much it is ! 

And the little less, and what worlds away! 
How a sound shall quicken content to bliss. 

Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, 
And life be a proof of this ! 

XL. 
Had she willed it, still had stood the screen 

So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her : 
I could fix her face with a guard between, 

And find her soul as when friends confer, 
Friends— lovers that might have been. 

XLI. 

For my heart had a touch of the woodland time. 

Wanting to sleep now over its best. 
Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime. 

But bring to the last leaf no such test ! 
'' Hold the last fast ! " runs the rhyme. 

XLII. 
For a chance to make your little much, 

To gain a lover and lose a friend. 
Venture the tree and a myriad such. 

When nothing you mar but the year can mend 
But a last leaf— fear to touch ! 

XLIII. 
Yet should it unfasten itself and fall 

Eddying down till it find your face 
At some slight wind— best chance of all I 

Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place 
You trembled to forestall ! 

XLIV. 

Worth how well, those dark gray eyes. 
That hair so dark and dear, how worth 

That a man should strive and agonize, 
And taste a veriest hell on earth 

For the hope of such a prize I 





We two stood there. 



74 Sy the Fireside. 

XLV. 

You might have turned and tried a man, 
Set him a space to weary and wear, 

And prove wdiich suited more your plan. 
His best of hope or his worst despair. 

Yet end as he began. 

XLVI. 

But you spared me this, like the heart you are. 
And tilled my empty heart at a word. 

If two lives join, there is oft a scar, 

They are one and one, with a shadowy third ; 

One near one is too far. 

XLVII. 

A fnoment after, and hands unseen 

Were hanging the night around us fast ; 

But we knew that a bar was broken between 
Life and life : we were mixed at last 

In spite of the mortal screen. 

XLVIII. 

The forests had done it ; there they stood ; 

We caught for a moment the powers at play : 
They had mingled us so, for once and good. 

Their work was done — we might go or stay. 
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 

XLIX. 

How the world is made for each of us ! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment's product thus, 

When a soul declares itself — to wit. 
By its fruit, the thing it does ! 

L. 

Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit, 
- It forwards the general deed of man, 
And each of the Many helps to recruit 

The life of the race by a general plan : 
Each living his own, to boot. 

LI. 
I am named and known by that moment's feat ; 

There took my station and degree ; 
So grew my own small life complete, 

As nature obtained her best of me — 
One born to love you, sweet ! 



A7jy Wife to any Husband. 75 



LII. 
And to watch you sink by the fireside now 

Back again, as you mutely sit 
.Musing by firehght, that great brow 

And the spirit-small hand propping it, 
Yonder, my heart knows how ! 

LIII. 
So, earth has gained by one man the more, 

And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too ; 
And the whole is well worth thinking o'er 

When autumn comes : which I mean to do 
One day, as I said before. 

ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 

T. 

j\lY love, this is the bitterest, that thou — 
Who art all truth, and who dost love me now 

As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say — 
Should St love so truly, and couldst love me still 
A whole long life through, had but love its will, 

Would death, that leads me from thee, brook delay. 

IT. 

I have but to be by th^e, and thy hand 
Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand 

The beating of my heart to reach its place. 
When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone ? 
When cry for the old comfort and find none? 

Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy face. 

III. 
Oh, I should fade— 'tis willed so! Might I save, 
Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave 

Joy to thy sense, for that was precious too. 
It is not to be granted. But the soul 
Wlience the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole; 

Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes all things new. 

IV. 

It would not be because my eye grew dim 

Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him 

Who never is dishonored in the spark 
He gave us from his fire of fires, and bade 
Remember whence it sprang, nor be afraid 

While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark, 



76 Any Wife to any Husband. 

V. 

So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean 
Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne 

Alike, this body given to show it by ! 
Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss, 
What plaudits from the next world after this, 

Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky ! 

VI. 

And is it not the bitterer to think 

That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink 

Although thy love was love in very deed ? 
I know that nature ! Pass a festive day, 
Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away. 

Nor bid its music's loitering echo speed. 

VII. 

Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell ; 
If old things remain old things all is well, 

For thou art grateful as becomes man best : 
And hadst thou only heard me play one tune, 
Or viewed me from a window^ not so soon 

With thee would such things fade as with the rest. 

VIII. 

I seem to see ! We meet and part ; 'tis brief ; 
The book I opened keeps a folded leaf, 

The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank ; 
That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call : 

And for all this, one little hour to thank ! 

IX. 

But now, because the hour through years was fixed, 
Because our inmost beings met and mixed, 

Because thou once hast loved me — wilt thou dare 
Say to thy soul and Who may list beside, 
'* Therefore she is immortally my bride ; 

Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair. 

X. 

'' So, what if in the dusk of life that's left, 
I, a tired traveler of my sun bereft, 

Look from my path when, mimicking the same. 
The firefly glimpses past me, come and gone ? 
— Where was it till the sunset ? where anon 

It will be at the sunrise ! What's to blame ? " 



Any Wife to any Husband. 77 

XI. 

Is it so helpful to thee ? Canst thou take 
The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake, 

Put gently by such efforts at a beam ? 
Is the remainder of the way so long, 
Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong ? 

Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream. 

XII. 

— Ah, but the fresher faces ! *' Is it true," 
Thou'lt ask, " some eyes are beautiful and new .^ 

Some hair, — how can one choose but grasp such wealth } 
And if a man would press his lips to lips 
Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips 

The dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth ? 

XIII. 

'* It cannot change the love still kept for her. 
More than if such a picture I prefer 

Passing a day with, to a room's bare side : 
The painted form takes nothing she possessed. 
Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, 

A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide } " 

XIV. 

So must I see, from where I sit and watch. 
My own self sell myself, my hand attach 

Its warrant to the very thefts from me — 
Thy -singleness of soul that made me proud, 
Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, 

Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see ! 

XV. 

Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all thou cans^ 
Away to the new faces — disentranced. 

(Say it and think it) obdurate no more. 
Re-issue looks and words from the old mint. 
Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print. 

Image, and superscription once they bore ! 

XVI. 

Re-coin thyself, and give it them to spend, — 
It all comes to the same thing at the end. 

Since mine thou wast, mine art, and mine shalt be. 
Faithful or faithless : sealing up the sum 
Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come 

Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee ! 



78 In a Year. 



XVII. 

Only, why should it be with stain at all ? 
Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, 

Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? 
Why need the other women know so much, 
And talk together, " Such the look and such 

The smile he used to love with, then as now ! '* 

XVIII. 

Might I die last and show thee ! Should I find 
Such hardships in the few years left behind, 

If free to take and light my lamp, and go 
Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit. 
Seeing thy face on those four sides of it 

The better that they are so blank, I know ! 

XIX. 

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er 
Within my mind each look, get more and more 

By heart each word, too much to learn at first ; 
And join thee all the fitter for the pause 
'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were cause 

For lingerittg, though thou calledst, if I durst \ 

XX. 

And yet thou art the nobler of us two : 
What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do. 

Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride } 
I'll say then, here's a trial and a task ; 
Is it to bear .'^ — if easy, I'll not ask : 

Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride. 

XXI. 

Pride? — when those eyes forestall the life behind 
The death I have to go throiugh ! — when I find, 

Now that I want thy help most, all of thee! 
What did I fear.'^ Thy love shall hold me fast 
Until the little minute's sleep is past 

And I wake saved. — And yet it will not be ! 

IN A YEAR. 

I. 

Never any more. 

While I live. 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before, 



hi a Year, 79 



Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive : 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 

II. 

Was it something said. 

Something clone, 
Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, 

Turn of head } 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun : 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

III. 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sung, 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word, 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprung, 

Then he heard. 

IV. 

Sitting by my side. 

At my feet, 
So he breathed but air I breathed, 

Satisfied ! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 

V. 

" Speak, I love thee best ! " 

He exclaimed : 
** Let thy love my own foretell ! " 

I confessed : 
" Clasp my heart on thine 

Now unblamed, 
Since upon thy soul as well 

Hangeth mine ! " 

VI. 

Was it wrong to own. 
Being truth } 



go In a Year. 



Why should all the giving prove 

His alone? 
I had wealth and ease, 

Beauty, youth : 
Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave these. 

VII. 

That was all I meant, 

— To be just, 
And the passion I had raised, 

To content. 
Since he chose to change 

Gold for dust, 
If I gave him what he praised 

Was it strange ? 

VIII. 

Would he loved me yet, 

On and on, 
While I found some way undreamed 

— Paid my debt ! 
Gave more life and more. 

Till all gone, 
He should smile, " She never seemed 

Mine before. 

IX. 

" What, she felt the while. 

Must I think ? 
Love's so different with us men ! " 

He should smile : 
'* Dying for my sake — 

White and pink ! 
Can't we touch these bubbles then 

But they break } " 

X. 

Dear, the pang is brief. 

Do thy part, 
Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed 

Grows belief ! 
Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart : 
Crumble it, and what comes next? 

Is it God ? 



A Woman's Last Word. 8l 

SONG FROM -JAMES LEE." 
I. 

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, 
This autumn morning ! How he sets his bones 

To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet 

For the ripple to run over in its mirth : 

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones 

The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. 

II. 
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 

Sucii is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your love, 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you. 

Make the low nature better by your throes ! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above ! 

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
I. 

Let's contend no more, Love, 

Strive nor weep ; 
All be as before. Love, 

— Only sleep ! 

II. 
What so wild as words are ? 

I and thou 
In debate, as birds are, 

Hawk on bough ! 

III. 
See the creature stalking 

While we speak ! 
Hush and hide the talking, 

Ciieek on cheek. 

IV. 

What so false as truth is, 

False to thee ? 
Where the serpent's tooth is, 

Shun the tree — 

V. 

Where the apple reddens, 

Never pry — 
Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 



82 



Meeting at Night. 



VI. 
Be a ^od, and hold me 

With a charm ! 
Be a man, and fold me 

With thine arm ! 

VII. 
Teach me, only teach. Love ! 

As I ought 
I will speak thy speech, Love, 
Think thy thought — 

VIII. 
Meet, if thou require it, 

Both demands, 
Laying flesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

IX. 

That shall be to-morrow, 

Not to-night : 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight : 

X. 

— Must a little weep, Love, 

(Foolish me !) 
And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 

MEETING AT NIGHT. 



The gray sea and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon larq^e and low ; 




The gkay ska. 



Women and Roses. 83 



And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

II. 
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears, 
Than the two hearts beating- each to each ! 



PARTING AT MORNING. 

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. 
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim : 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a world of men for me. 



WOMEN AND ROSES. 
I. 

I DREAM of a red-rose tree. 
And which of its roses three 
Is the dearest wse to me } 

II. 

Round and round, like a dance of snow 
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go 
Floating tlie women faded for ages. 
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. 
Then follow women fresh and gay. 
Living and loving and loved to-day. 
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, 
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, 
They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

III. 
Dear rose, thy term is reached. 
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : 
Bees pass it un impeached. 

IV. 

Stay, then, stoop, since I cannot climb. 
You, great shapes of the antique time. 
How shall 1 fix you, fire you, freeze you. 
Break my heart at your feet to please you .^ 



84 Misco7iceptions, 



Oh, to possess and be possessed ! 

Hearts that beat 'neath each palhd breast ! 

Once but of love, the poesy, the passion, 

Drink but once and die ! — In vain, the same fashion, 

They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

V. 
Dear rose, thy joy's un dimmed ; 
Thy cup is ruby-rimmed. 
Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. 

VI. 

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth 
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, 
So will I bury me while burning, 
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, 
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips ! 
Fold me fast where the cincture slips. 
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, 
Girdle me for once ! But no— the old measure, 
They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

VII. 
Dear rose without a thorn, 
Thy bud's the babe unborn : 
First streak of a new morn. 

VIII. 

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear ! 
What is far conquers what is near. 
Roses will bloom nor want beholders, 
Sprung from the dust where our flesh molders. 
What shall arrive with the cycle's change } 
A novel grace and a beauty strange. 
I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her, 
Shaped her to his mind ! — Alas ! in like manner 
They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

MISCONCEPTIONS. 
I. 

This is a spray the bird clung to, 

Making it blossom with pleasure, 
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to. 

Fit for her nest and her treasure. 

Oh, what a hope beyond measure 
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,- 
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 



A Pretty lVo?nan. 



8s 



II. 

That is a heart the queen leant on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic, 
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 

Meet for love's regal dahnatic. 

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on 
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! 





•^■^ 



,'. / 



:.^ 



A PRETTY WOMAN. 

I. 
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of liers. 

And the blue eye 

Dear and dewy, 
And that infantine fresh air of hers ! 

II. 
To think men cannot take you, Sweet, 

And infold you. 

Ay, and hold you, 
And so keep you what they make you. Sweet ! 

III. 
You like us for a glance, you know — 

Eor a w^ord's sake 

Or a sword's sake : 
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know^ 



86 A Pretty Woman. 



IV. 
And in turn we make you ours, we say— 

You and youth too, 

Eyes and mouth too, 
All the face composed of flow^ers, we say. 

V. 

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet- 
Sing and say for, 
Watch and pray for. 

Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet ! 

VI. 

But for loving, why, you w^ould not, Sweet, 

Though we prayed you, 

Paid you, brayed you 
In a mortar — for you could not, Sweet ! 

VII. 

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there : 

Be its beauty 

Its sole duty ! 
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there ! 

VIII. 
And while the face lies quiet there, 

Who shall wonder 

That I ponder 
A conclusion ? I will try it there. 

IX. 

As,— why must one, for the love foregone. 

Scout mere liking ? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth,— the heaven, we looked above for, gone ! 

X. 

Why, with beauty, needs there money be, 

Love with liking ? 

Crush the fly-king 
In his gauze, because no honey-bee } 

XI. 

May not the liking be so simple-sweet, 

If love grew there 

'Twould undo there 
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet ? 



A Light lVoj/ia7i. 87 



XII. 

Is the creature too imperfect, say ? 

Would you mend it, 

And so end it? 
Since not all addition perfects aye ! 

XIII. 
Or is it of its kind, perhaps, 

Just perfection — 

Whence, rejection 
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps ? 

XIV. 
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once 

Into tinder, 

And so hinder 
Sparks from kindling all the place at once.'^ 

XV. 

Or else kiss away one's soul on her ? 

Your love fancies ! 

— A sick man sees 
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her I 

XVI. 
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,- 

Plucks a mold-flower 

For his gold flower, 
Uses fine things that efface the rose: 

XVII. 
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose. 

Precious metals 

Ape the petals, — 
Last, some old king locks it up, morose ! 

XVIII. 
Then how grace a rose? I know a way ! 

Leave it, rather. 

Must you gather ? 
Smell, kiss, wear it — at last, throw away ! 

A LIGHT W^OMAN. 

I. 

So far as our story approaches the end, 
Which do you pity the most of us three .^- 

My friend, or the mistress of my friend 
With her wanton eyes, or me? 



88 A Light Woman. 



II. 
My friend was already too good to lose, 

And seenied in the way of improvement yet, 
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose 

And over him drew her net. 

III. 

When I saw him tangled in her toils, 
A shame, said I, if she adds just him 

To her nine and ninety other spoils, 
The hundredth for a w^him ! 

IV. 

And before my friend be wholly hei'S, 

How easy to prove to him, I said, 
An eagle's the game her pride prefers. 

Though she snaps at a wren instead. 

V. 

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take. 
My hand sought hers as in earnest need, 

And round she turned for my noble sake. 
And gave me herself indeed. 

VI. 

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, 
The wren is he, with his maiden face. 

— You look away and your lip is curled ? 
Patience, a moment's space ! 

VII. 
For see, my friend goes shaking and white ; 

He eyes me as the basilisk : 
I have turned, it appears, his day to night, 

Eclipsing his sun's disk. 

VIII. 

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief : 

** Though I love her — that, he comprehends — 

One should master one's passions (love, in chief), 
And be loyal to one's friends ! " 

IX. 

And she, — she lies in my hand as tame 

As a pear late basking over a wall ; 
Just a touch to try, and off it came ; 

'Tis mine, — can I let it fall ? 



Love in a Life. 89 



X. 

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst ! 

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist ? 
'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst 

When I gave its stalk a twist. 

XI. 

And I, — what I seem to my friend, you see ; 

What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess : 
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me ? 

No hero, I confess. 

XII. 

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, 
And matter enough to save one's own : 

Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals 
He played with for bits of stone ! 

XIII. 
One likes to show the truth for the truth ; 

That the woman was light is very true : 
But suppose she says, — Never mind that youth ! 

What wrong have I done to you 1 

XIV. 

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, 

So far at least as 1 understand ; 
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, 

Here's a subject made to your hand ! 

LOVE IN A LIFE. 

I. 
Room afte* room, 
I hunt the house through 
We inhabit together. 

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her — 
Next time, herself ! — not the trouble behind her 
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume ! 
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew 
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. 

II. 
Yet the day wears, 
And door succeeds door ; 
I try the fresh fortune — 

Range the wide house from the wing to the center. 
Still the same chance ! she goes out as I ^nter. 



go The Laboratory. 



Spend my whole da}' in the quest,— who cares ? 

But 'tis twihght, you see,— w^th such suites to explore, 

Such closets to search, "such alcoves to importune ! 

LIFE IN A LOVE. 

Escape me ? 
Never- 
Beloved ! 

While I am I, and you are you, 
So long as the world contains us both, 

Me the loving and you the loth. 
While the one eludes, must the other pursue. 
]\ly life is a fault at last, I fear : 

It seems too much like a fate, indeed I 

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 
But what if I fail of my purpose here ? 
It is but to keep the nerves at strain, 

To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, 
And baffled, get up and begin again,— 

So the chase takes up one's life, that's all. 
While, look but once from your farthest bound 

At me so deep in the dust and dark, 
No sooner the old hope goes to ground 

Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark, 
I shape me — 
Ever 



Removed 



THE LABORATORY. 

AN CI EN REGIME. 
I. 
Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, 
May gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely, 
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy— 
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee.^ 

II. 

He is with her, and they know that I know 

Where they are, what they do : they believe my tears 

flow 
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear 
Empty church, to pray God in, for them !— I am here, 

III. 
Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, 
Pound at thy powder,— I am not in haste ! 



The Laboratory. 



91 



Better sit thus and observe thy strange 
thini^ 

wait me, and 



Than go where men 



dance at the Kino's. 



IV 



That in the mortar — you call it a 

gum ? 
Ah, the brave tree whence such gold 

oozings come ! 
And yonder soft vial, the exquisite 

blue. 
Sure to taste sweetly, — is that poison 

too ? 

V. 

Had I but all of them, thee and thy 
treasures, 

What a wild crowd of invisible pleas- 
ures ! 

To carry pure death in an earring, a 
casket, 

A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree 
basket ! 

VI. 




Yet this does it all! 



Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give, 
And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live ! 
But tp light a pastille, and Elise with her head 
And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop 
dead ! 

VII. 

Quick — is it finished ? The color's too grim ! 
Why not soft like the vial's, enticing and dim ? 
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir. 
And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer ! 

VIII. 

What a drop ! She's not little, no minion like me ! 
That's \vhy she ensnared him : this never will free 
The soul from those masculine eyes, — say, " No !" 
To that pulse's magnificent come and go. 

IX. 

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought 

My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought 

Could I keep them one-half minute fixed, she would fall 

Shriveled ; she fell not ; yet this does it all ! 



9 2 Gold II ah' 



X. 

Not that I bid you spare her the pain ; 
Let death be felt and tlie proof remain : 
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace — 
He is sure to remember her dying face 1 

XI. 

Ts it done ? Take my mask off ! Nay, be not morose; 
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close : 
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee I 
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me ? 

XII. 
Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, 
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you wnll I 
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings 
Ere I know it — next moment I dance at the King's! 

GOLD HAIR: 

A STORY OF PORNIC. 

I. 
Oh, tlie beautiful girl, too white. 

Who lived at Pornic down by the sea, 
Just w^here the sea and the Loire unite ! 

And a boasted name in Brittany 
She bore, which I will not wi'ite. 

II. 
Too white, for the flower of life is red ; 

Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen 
Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) 

To just see earth, and hardly be seen, 
And blossom in heaven instead. 

III. 
Yet earth saw^ one thing, one how fair ! 

One grace that grew to its full on earth : 
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, 

And her waist want half a girdle's girth, 
But she had her great gold hair. 

IV. 

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, 

Freshness and fragrance — floods of it, too ! 

Gold, did I say ? Nay, gold's mere dross : 

Here, Life smiled, " Think what I meant to do ! ' 

And Love sighed, " Fancy my loss ! " 



Gold Hair. 93 



V. 

So, when she died, it was scarce more strange 
Than that, when some delicate evening dies, 

And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, 
There's a shoot of color startles the skies 

With sudden, violent change, — 

VI. 
That, while the breath was nearly to seek. 

As they put the little cross to her lips. 
She changed ; a spot came out on her cheek, 

A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse. 
And she broke forth, " I must speak ! 

VII. 

** Not my hair ! " made the girl her moan — 

"All the rest is gone or to go ; 
But the last, last grace, my all, my own. 

Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know ! 
Leave my poor gold hair alone ! " 

VIII. 

The passion thus vented, dead lay she: 
Her parents sobbed their worst on that. 

All friends joined in, nor observed degree : 
For indeed the hair was to w^onder at, 

As it spread — not flowing free, 

IX. 

But curled around her brow, like a crown. 
And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, 

And calmed about her neck — ay, down 
To her breast, pressed flat without a gap 

r the gold, it reached her gown. 

X. 

All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 

'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: 

E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, 
As he planted the crucifix with care 

On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. 

XI. 

And thus was she buried, inviolate 

Of body and soul, in the very space 
By the altar ; keeping saintly state 

In Pornic church, for her pride of race, 
Pure life and piteous fate. 



94 Gold Hai?'. 



XII. 

And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, i 

Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious j 

smile, \ 

As they told you of gold both robe and pall, i 

How she prayed them leave it alone a while, I 

So it never was touched at all. j 

XIII. ] 

Years flew; this legend grew at last j 

The life of the lady ; all she had done, \ 

All been, in the memories fading fast ; 

Of lover and friend, was summed in one '\ 

Sentence survivors passed : * ; 

XIV. 

To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth ; 

Had turned an angel before the time : ' 
Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth 

Of frailty, all you could count a crime 

\Vas — she knew her gold hair's worth. : 



XV. 

At little pleasant Pornic church, 

It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, 

Was taken to pieces : left in the lurch, 
A certain sacred space lay bare, 

And the boys began research. 

XVI. 

'Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, 

A benefactor, — a bishop, suppose, 
A baron with armor-adornments quaint, 

Dame with chased ring and jeweled rose, 
Things sanctity saves from taint ; 

XVII. 

So we come to find them in after-days 

\Vhen the corpse is presumed to have done with 
gauds 
Of use to the living, in many ways : 

For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, 
And the church deserves the praise. 

XVIII. 

They grubbed with a will : and at length — O cor 
Hiiina7mni, pec tor a cose a, and the rest ! — 



Gold Hair. 95 



They found — no gaud they were prying for, 

No ring, no rose, but — ^who would have guessed ?- 
A double Louis-d'or ! 

XIX. 

Here was a case for the priest : he heard, 

Marked, inwardly digested, laid 
Finger on nose, smiled, ** A little bird 

Chirps in my ear : " then, " Bring a spade, 
Dig deeper! " — he gave the word. 

XX. 

And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, 
Or rotten planks which composed it once, 

Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid 
A mint of money, it served for the nonce 

To hold in its hair-heaps hid ! 

XXI. 

Hid there ? Why } Could the girl be wont 
(She the stainless soul) to treasure up 

Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? 
Had a spider found out the communion-cup } 

Was a toad in the christening-font } 

XXII. 
Truth is truth : too true it was. 

Gold ! She hoarded and hugged it first, 
Lono^ed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it — alas— 

Till the humor grew to a head and burst, 
And she cried, at the final pass, — 

XXIII. 

"Talk not of God, my heart is stone ! 

Nor lover nor friend — be gold for both ! 
Gold I lack ; and, my all, my own. 

It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth 
If they let my hair alone ! " 

XXIV. 

Louis-d'ors, some six times five. 

And duly double, every piece. 
Now, do you see ? With the priest to shrive, 

With parents preventing her soul's release 
By kisses that kept alive, — 

XXV. 

With heaven's gold gates about to ope. 

With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still. 



i)6 The Statue and the Bust. 

An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope 

For gold, the true sort — *' Gold in heaven, if you will ; 
But I keep earth's too, I hope." 

XXVI. 

Enough ! The priest took the grave's grim yield : 
The parents, they eyed that price of sin 

As if thirty pieces lay revealed 
On the place to bury stra77gers in, 

The hideous Potter's Field. 

XXVII. 

But the priest bethought him : ** * Milk that's spilt' 
— You know the adage ! Watch and pray ! 

Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt ! 
It would build a new altar ; that, we may ! " 

And the altar therewith was built. 

XXVIII. 

Why I deliver this horrible verse ? 

As the text of a sermon, which now I preach. 
Evil or good may be better or worse 

In the human heart, but the mixture of each 
Is a marvel and a curse. 

XXIX. 

The candid incline to surmise of late 

That the Christian faith may be false, I find ; 

For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate 
Begins to tell on the public mind, 

And Colenso's words have weight : 

XXX. 

I still, to suppose it true, for my part, 
See reasons and reasons ; this, to begin : 

'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart 
At the head of a lie — taught Original Sin, 

The Corruption of Man's Heart. 

THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, 
And a statue watches it from the square. 
And this story of both do our townsmen tell. 

Ages ago, a lady there, 

At the farthest window facing the East 

Asked, " Who rides by with the royal air ? " 



The Statue and the Bust. 



97 



The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased ; 
She leaned forth, one on either hand : 
They saw how the blush of the bride 
increased — 

They felt by its beats her heart 

expand — 
As one at each ear and both in a 

breath 
Whispered, ** The Great Duke 

Ferdinand." 

That selfsame instant, underneath, 
The Duke rode past in his idle way, 
Empty and fine, like a swordless 
sheath. 

Gay he rode, with a friend as 

gay. 

Till he threw his head back — ** Who 

is she } " 
— " A bride the Riccardi brings 

home to-day." 

Hair in heaps lay heavily 

Over a pale brow spirit-pure — 

Carved hke the heart of the coal-black tree 




Ages ago, a lady there. 



Crisped like a war-steed's encokre — 
And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes 
Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise 
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man, — 
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. 

He looked at her, as a lover can. 

She looked at him, as one who awakes : 

The past was a sleep, and her life began. 

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, 

A feast was held, that selfsame night, 

In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. 

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, 

But the palace overshadows one, 

Because of a crime which may God requite I 

To Florence and God the wrong was done, 
Through the first republic's murder there 
By Cosimo and his cursed son.) 



98 The Statue and the Bust. 



The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) 
Turned, in the midst of his multitude, 
At the bright approach of the bridal pair. 

Face to face the lovers stood 
A single minute and no more, 
While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued- 
Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor— 
For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, 
As the courtly custom was of yore.^^ 

In a minute can lovers exchange a word ? 
If a word did pass, which I do not think, 
Only one out of the thousand heard. 

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink 
He and his bride were alone at last 
In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink. 

Calmly he said that her lot was cast, 

That the door she had passed was shut on her 

Till the final catafalque repassed. 

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, 
Through a certain window facing the East, 
She could watch like a convent's chronicler. 

Since passing the door might lead to a feast, 
And a feast might lead to so much beside, 
He, of many evils, chose the least. 

*' P^reely I choose too," said the bride— 
" Your window and its world suffice," 
Replied the tongue, while the heart replied— 

'* If I spend the night with that devil twice, 
rvlav his window serve as]my loop of hell 
Whence a damned soul looks on paradise ! 

*' I fly to the Duke who loves me well, 
Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow 
Ere I count another ave-bell. 

" 'Tis only the coat of a page to borrow^ 

And tie my hair in a horseboy's trim, 

And I save my soul— but not to-morrow "-— 

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim) 
" My father tarries to bless my state : 
I must keep it one day more for him. 



The Statue a?id the Bust. 99 

" Is one clay more so long to wait ? 
Moreover the'Duke rides past, I know ; 
We shall see each other, sure as fate." 

She turned on her side and slept. Just so ! 
So we resolve on a thing, and sleep : 
So did the lady, ages ago. 

That night the Duke said, " Dear or cheap 
As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove 
To body or soul, I will drain it deep." 

And on the morrow, bold with love, 

He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, 

As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 

And smiled, " 'Twas a very funeral, 
Your lady will think, this feast of ours, — 
A shame to efface, whate'er befall ! 

*• What if we break from the Arno bowers, 

And try if Petraja, cool and green, 

Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers.?' " 

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen 
On his steady brow and quiet mouth, 
Said, " Too much favor for me so mean ! 

" But, alas ! my lady leaves the South, 
Each wind that comes from the Apennine 
Is a menace to her tender youth : 

" Nor a way exists, the wise opine, 
If she quits her palace twice this year. 
To avert the flower of life's decline." 

Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kindly fear. 
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: 
Be our feast to-night as usual here ! " 

And then to himself — ** Which night shall biing 
Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — 
Or I am the fool, and thou art the king! 

" Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool — 
For to-night the envoy arrives from France 
Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool. 

" I need thee still and might miss perchance. 

To-day is not wholly lost, beside, 

With its hope of my lady's countenance: 



ICO The Statue and the Bust. 

" For I ride — what should I do but ride ? 

And, passing her palace, if I Hst, 

May glance at its window — well betide I " 

So said, so done : nor the lady missed 
One ray that broke from the ardent brow, 
Nor a curl of the h'ps where the spirit kissed. 

Be sure that each renewed the vow, 
No morrow's sun should arise and set 
And leave them then as it left them now. 

But next day passed, and next day }et, 
With still fresh cause to wait one day more 
Ere each leaped over the parapet. 

And still, as love's brief morning wore, 
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh. 
They found love not as it seemed before. 

They thought it would work infallibly, 

But not in despite of heaven and earth : 

The rose would blow when the storm passed by. 

Meantime they could protii. in winter's dearth, 
By store of fruits that supplant the rose : 
The world and its ways have a certain worth : 

And to press a point while these oppose 

Were simple policy; better wait : 

We lose no friends and we gain no foes. 

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, 
Who daily may ride and pass and look 
Where his lady watches behind the grate I 

And she — she watched the square like a book 
Holding one picture and only one, 
Which daily to find she undertook : 

When the picture was reached the book was done. 
And she turned from the picture at night to scheme 
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 

So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by gleam 
The glory dropped from their youth and love. 
And both perceived they had dreamed a dream ; 

Which hovered as dreams do, still above : 
But who can take a dream for a truth ? 
Oh. hide our eves from the next remove I 



The Statue a fid the Bust. loi 

One day as the lady saw her youth 
Depart, and the silver thread that streaked 
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth, 

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,— 
And wondered who the woman was, 
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked 

Fronting her silent in tlie glass — 
" Summon here," slie suddenly said, 
" Before the rest of my old self pass, 

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid. 

Who fashions the clay no love will change, 

And fixes a beauty never to fade. 

'' Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange 
Arrest the remains of young and fair. 
And rivet them while the seasons range. 

" Make me a face on the window there. 
Waiting as ever, mute the while, 
]\Iy love to pass below in the square ! 

" And let me think that it may beguile 
Dreary days which the dead nmst spend 
Down in their darkness under the aisle, 

'* To say, ' What matters it at the end ? 
I did no more while my heart was warm 
Than does that image, my pale-faced frier.d.' 

" Where is the use of the lip's red charm, 
The heaven of hair, the pride of the bi'ow, 
And the blood that blues the inside arm — 

'* Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, 
The earthly gift to an end divine? 
A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine 

With flowers and fruits which leaves inlace, 

Was set where now is the empty shrine — 

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space. 
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, 
The passionate pale lady's face — 

Eying ever, with earnest eye 

And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, 

Someone who ever is passing by — ) 



102 The Statue and tJie Bust. 



Tlie Duke had sighed hke the simplest wretch 
In Florence, " Youth — my dream escapes ! 
Will its record stay ! " And he bade them fetch 

Some subtle molder of brazen shapes — 
** Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 
Ere his body finds the grave that gapes ? 

" John of Douay shall effect my plan, 
Set me on horseback here aloft. 
Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, 

" In the very square I have crossed so oft : 
That men may admire, when future suns 
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, 

" While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze- 
Admire and say, ' When he was alive 
How he would take his pleasure once ! ' 

" And it shall go hard but I contrive 

To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb 

At idleness which aspires to strive." 



So ! While these wait the trump of doom, 
How do their spirits pass, I wonder. 
Nights and days in the narrow room ? 

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder 
What a gift life was, ages ago, 
Six steps out of the chapel yonder. 

Only they see not God, I know, 

Nor all that chivalry of his. 

The soldier-saints who, row on row, 

Burn upward each to his point of bliss — 

Since, the end of life being manifest, 

He had burned his way through the world to this. 

I hear you reproach, " But delay was best. 

For their end was a crime." -Oh ! a crime will do 

As well, I reply, to serve for a test, 

As a virtue golden through and through, 

Sufficient to vindicate itself 

And prove its worth at a moment's view ! 

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf } 
Where a button goes, 'twere an epigram 
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. 



Love Among the Ruins. 103 

The true has no value beyond the sham : 

As well the counter as coin, I submit, 

When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram. 

Stake your counter as boldly every whit, 

Venture as warily, use the same skill. 

Do your best, whether winning or losing it, 

If you choose to play ! — is my principle. 
Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life's set prize, be it what it will ! 

The counter, our lovers staked, was lost 

As surely as if it were lawful coin : 

And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost 

Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin. 
Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. 
You of tlie virtue (we issue join) 
How strive you ? De te, fabtila ! 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 

I. 

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, 

Miles and miles. 
On tlie solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop 

As they crop — 
Was the site once of a city great and gay 

(So they say), 
Of our country's very capital, its prince, 

Ages since. 
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far 

Peace or war. 

II. 
Now, — the country does not even boast a tree, 

As you see, 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills 

From the hills 
Intersect and give a name to (else they run 

Into one), 
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires 

Up like fires 
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all. 
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, 

Twelve abreast. 



I04 Love Among the Ruins. 

III. 
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass 

Never was ! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads 

And embeds 
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, 

Stock or stone — 
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe 

Long ago ; 
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame 

Struck them tame ; 
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 

Bought and sold. 

IV. 

Now, — the single little turret that remains 

On the plains. 
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 

Overscored, 
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom v^^inks 

Through the chinks — 
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time 

Sprang sublime, 
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced 

As they raced. 
And the monarch and his minions and his dames 

Viewed the games. 

V. 

And I know —while thus the quiet-colored eve 

Smiles to leave 
To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece 

In such peace, 
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray 

Melt aw^ay — 
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 

Waits me there 
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul 

For the goal, 
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, 
dumb 

Till I come. 

VI. 
But he looked upon the city, every side. 

Far and wide, 
All the mountains topped w^th temples, all the glades 

Colonnades, 



Times Revenges, 



loS 



All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, 
— and then, 

All the men! 
When I do come, she will speak 
not, she will stand, 
Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the 
first embrace 
Of my face, 
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish 
sight and speech 
Each on each. 

VIT. 

In one year they sent a million 
fighters forth 

South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen 
pillar high 

As the sky, 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots 
in full force — 

Gold, of course. 
O heart ! O blood that freezes, 
blood that burns ! 

Earth's returns 
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! 

Shut them in, 
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest ! 
Love is best. 




That a girl with eager eyes 
yellow hair 

Waits me there. 



AND 



TIME'S REVENGES. 

I've a Friend, over the sea ; 

I like him, but he loves me. 

It all grew out of the books I write ; 

They find such favor in his sight 

That he slaughters you with savage looks 

Because you don't admire my books. 

He does himself though, — and if some vein 

Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,. 

To-morrow month, if I lived to try, 

Round should I just turn quietly. 

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand 

Till I found him, come from his foreign land 

To be my nurse in this poor place. 

And make my broth and wash my face 



io6 Times Eevenges, 



And light my fire and, all the while, 
Bear with his old good-humored smile 
That I told him, "Better have kept away 
Than come and kill me, night aiul day. 
With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, 
The creaking of his clumsy boots." 
I am as sure that this he would do, 
As that Saint Paul's is striking two. 
And I think I rather . . . woe is me I 
— Yes, rather should see him tiian not see, 
If lifting a hand would seat him there 
Before me in the empty chair 
To-night, when my head aches indeed, 
And I can neither think nor read. 
Nor make these purple fingers hold 
The pen: this garret's freezing cold ! 

And I've a Lady — there he wakes 

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes 

Within me, at her name, to pray 

Fate send some creature in the way 

Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 

Upthrust and outward-borne. 

So I might prove myself that sea 

Of passion which I needs must be ! 

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint, 

And my style infirm and its figures faint, 

All the critics say, and more blame yet, 

And not one angry word you get. 

But, please you, wonder I would put 

My cheek beneath that lady's foot 

Rather than trample under mine 

The laurels of the Florentine, 

And you shall see how the Devil spends 

A fire God gave for other ends ! 

I tell you, I stride up and down 

This garret, crowned with love's best crown. 

And feasted with love's perfect feast, 

To think I kill for her, at least, 

Body and soul and peace and fame, 

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, 

— So is my spirit, as flesh with sin. 

Filled full, eaten out and in 

With the face of her, the eyes of her, 

The lips, the little chin, the stir 

Of shadow round her mouth ; and she 

■ — I'll tell you, — calmly would decree 



Wart?ig. 107 



That I should roast at a slow fire, 
If that would compass her desire 
And make her one whom they invite 
To the famous ball to-morrow night. 

There may be heaven ; there must be hell ; 
Meantime, there is our earth here — well ! 

WARING. 

I. 

I. 
What's become of Waring 
Since he gave us all the slip, 
Chose land-travel or seafaring, 
Boots and chest or staff and scrip, 
Rather than pace up and down 
Any longer London town ? 

II. 
Who'd have guessed it from his lip 
Or his brow's accustomed bearing, 
On the night he thus took ship 
Or started landward ? — little caring 
For us, it seems, who supped together 
(Friends of his too, I remember) 
And walked home through the merry weather 
The snowiest in all December. 
I left his arm that night myself 
For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet 
Who wrote the book there on the shelf — 
How, forsooth, was I to know it 
If Waring meant to glide away 
Like a ghost at break of day } 
Never looked he half so gay ! 

III. 
He was prouder than the Devil : 
How he must have cursed our revel ! 
Ay, and many other meetings, 
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings 
As up and down he paced this London, 
With no work done, but great works undone, 
Where scarce twenty knew his name. 
Why not, then, have earlier spoken. 
Written, bustled.'^ Who's to blame 
If your silence kept unbroken ? 



io8 I Fa ring. 



" True, but there were sundry jottings, 

Stray-leaves, fragineiUs, blurs and blottings, 

Certain first steps were achieved 

Already \vliich " — (is that your meaning ?) 

" Had well borne out whoe'er believed 

In more to come ! " But who goes gleaning 

Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved 

Stand cornfields by him ? Pride, o'erweening 

Pride alone, puts forth such claims 

O'er the day's distinguished names. 

IV. 

Meantime, how much I loved him, 

I find out now I've lost him. 

I who cared not if I moved him. 

Who could so carelessly accost him, 

Henceforth never shall get free 

Of his ghostly company. 

His eyes that just a little wink 

As deep I go into the merit 

Of this and that distinguished spirit — 

His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink, 

As long I dwell on some stupendous 

And treniendous (Heaven defend us !) 

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's latest piece of graphic. 

Nay, my very wrist grows warm 

With his dragging weight of arm. 

E'en so, swimmingly appears, 

Through one's after-supper musings, 

Some lost lady of old years 

With her beauteous vain endeavor 

And goodness unrepaid as ever ; 

The face, accustomed to refusings. 

We, puppies that we were . . . Oh, never 

Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled 

Being aught like false, forsooth, to ? 

Telling aught but honest truth to ? 

What a sin, had we centupled 

Its possessor's grace and sweetness ! 

No ! she heard in its completeness 

Truth, for truth's a weighty matter, 

And, truth at issue, we can't flatter ! 

Well, 'tis done with; she's exempt 

From damning us through such a sally ; 

And so she ghdes, as down a ^■alley, 



I Faring. 109 



Taking up with her contempt, 
Past our reach ; and in, the flowers 
Shut her unregarded hours. 

V. 
Oh, could I have him hack once more, 
This Waring, but one-half day more ! 
Back, with the quiet fnce of yore, 
So hungry for acknowledgment 
Like mine ! I'd fool him to his bent. 
Feed, should not he, to heart's content ? 
I'd say, " to only have conceived. 
Planned your great works, apart from progress, 
Surpasses little works achieved ! " 
Pel lie so, I should be believed. 
Pd make such havoc of the claims 
Of the day's distinguished names 
To feast him with, as feasts an ogress 
Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child ! 
Or as one feasts a creature rarely 
Captured here, unreconciled 
To capture ; and completely gives 
Its pettish humors license, barely 
Requiring that it lives. 

VI. 
Ichabod, Ichabod, 
The glory is departed ! 
Travels Waring East away ? 
W^io, of knowledge, by hearsay. 
Reports a man upstarted 
Somew^here as a god, 
Hordes grown European-hearted, 
Millions of the wild made tame 
On a sudden at his fame ? 
In Vishnu-land what Avatar ? 
Or who in Moscow, tow^ards the Czar, 
With the demurest of footfalls 
Over the Kremlin's pavement bright 
With serpentine and syenite, 
Steps, with five other generals 
Tliat simultaneously take snuff, 
For each to have pretext enough 
And kerchiefwise, unfold his sash 
Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, 
And leave the grand white neck no gash ? 
Wearing in Moscow, to those rough 



I T o IVari/ig. 



Cold northern natures borne perliaps, 

Like the lanibwhite maiden dear 

From the circle of mute kings ■; 

Unable to repress the tear, 

Each as his scepter down he flings, 

To Dian's fame at Taurica, 

Where now a captive priestess, she alway 

Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech 

With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach: 

As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands 

Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands 

Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry 

Amid their barbarous twitter! 

In Russia ? Never ! Spain were fitter ! 

Ay, most likely, 'tis in Spain 

That we and Waring meet again 

Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane 

Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 

All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid 

Its stiff gold blazing pall 

From some black coffin-lid. 

Or, best of all, 

I love to think 

The leaving us was just a feint ; 

Back here to London did he slink, 

And now works on without a wink 

Of sleep, and we are on the brink 

Of something great in fresco-paint : 

Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, 

Up and down and o'er and o'er 

He splashes, as none splashed before 

Since great Caldara Polidore. 

Or Music means this land of ours 

Some favor yet, to pity won 

By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers, — 

" Give me my so-long promised son, 

Let Waring end what I begun ! " 

Then down he creeps and out he steals, 

Only when the night conceals 

His face ; in Kent 'tis cherry-time, 

Or hops are picking : or at prime 

Of March he wanders as, too happy. 

Years ago when he was young, 

Some mild eve when woods grew sappy. 

And the early moths had sprung 

To life from many a trembling siieath 

Woven the warm boughs beneath ; 



Waring, • 111 



While small birds said to themselves 
What should soon be actual soug, 
And young- gHats, by tens and twelves, 
Made as if they were the throng- 
That crowd around and carry aloft 
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, 
Out of a myriad noises soft, 
Into a tone that can endure 
Amid the noise of a July noon 
When all God's creatures crave their boon, 
All at once, and all in tune, 
And get it, happy as Waring then. 
Having first within his ken 
What a man might do with men : 
And far too glad, in the even glow. 
To mix with the world he meant to take 
Into his hand, he told you, so — 
And out of it his world to make, 
To contract and to expand 
As he shut or oped his hand. 
O Waring I what's to really be? 
A clear stage and a crowd to see I 
Some Garrick, say, out shall not he 
The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? 
Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, 
Some Junius — am I right? — shall tuck 
His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife I 
Some Chatterton shall have the luck 
Of calling Rowley into life I 
Someone shall somehow run a muck 
With this old world, for want of strife 
Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive 
To rouse us. Waring ! Who's alive ? 
Our men scarce seem in earnest now. 
Distinguished names I — but 'tis, somehow. 
As if they played at being names 
Still more distinguished, like the games 
Of children. Turn our sport to earnest 
With a visage of the sternest I 
Bring the real times back, confessed 
Still better than our very best ! 

n. 

I. 

" When I last saw Waring "... 
(How all turned to him who spoke ! 



112 • IVarmg, 



You saw Waring- ? Truth or joke ? 
In land-travel or sea-faring ? ) 

II. 
** We were sailing by Triest 
Where a day or two we harbored : 
A sunset was in the West, 
When, looking over the vessel's side, 
One of our company espied 
A sudden speck to larboard. 
And as a sea-duck files and swims 
At once, so came the light craft up, 
With its sole lateen sail that trims 
And turns (the water round its rims 
Dancing, as round a sinking cup) 
And by us like a fish it curled. 
And drew itself up close beside, 
Its great sail on the instant furled. 
And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried 
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 
* Buy wine of us, you English Brig ? 
Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? 
A pilot for you to Triest ? 
Without one, look you ne'er so big, 
They'll never let you up the bay ! 
We natives should know best.' 
I turned, and ' just those fellows' way,' 
Our captain said, ' The 'long-shore tliieves 
Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' 

III. 

'' In truth, the boy leaned laughing back ; 
And one half hidden by his side 
Under the furled sail, soon I spied, 
With great grass hat and kerchief black 
Who looked up with his kingly throat, 
Said somewhat, while the other shook 
His hair back from his eyes to look 
Their longest at us ; then the boat, 
I know not how, turned sharply round, 
Laying her whole side on the sea 
As a leaping fish does ; from the lee 
Into the weather, cut somehow 
Her sparkling path beneath our bow, 
And so went off, as with a bound. 
Into the rosy and golden half 
O' the sky, to overtake the sun 



Home Thoughts from Abroad, 113 

And reach the shore, hke the sea-calf 

Its singing cave ; yet I caught one 

Glance ere away the boat quite passed, 

And neither time nor toil could mar 

Those features : so I saw the last 

Of Waring ! " — You ? Oh, never star 

Was lost here but it rose afar ! 

Look East, where whole new thousands are ! 

In Vishnu-land what Avatar ? 

HOxME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD. 
I. 
Oh, to be in England now^ that April's there, 
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning 
unaware. 



""^ ** "^fs*^"*"" 



I 



/ 







And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now ! 

And after April, wdien May follows 

And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 



114 '^^^^ Italian in England. 

Blossoms and dewflrops — at the bent spray's edge — 
That's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
And will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melonflower ! 

THE ITALIAN IX ENGLAND. 

That second time they hunted me 

From hill to plain, from shore to sea, 

And Austria, hounding far and wide 

Her bloodhounds through the countryside 

Breathed hot and instant on my trace. — 

I made six days a hiding-place 

Of that dry green old aqueduct 

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked 

The fire-flies from the roof above. 

Bright creeping through the moss they love : 

— How long it seems since Charles was lost ! 

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 

The country in my very sight ; 

And when that peril ceased at night, 

The sky broke out in red dismay 

With signal fires ; well, there I lay 

Close covered o'er in my recess. 

Up to the neck in ferns and cress, 

Thinking on Metternich our friend, 

And Charles's miserable end. 

And much beside, two days ; the third, 

Hunger o'ercame me when I heard 

The peasants from the village go 

To work among the maize ; you know, 

With us in Lombardy, they bring 

Provisions packed on mules, a string, 

With little bells that cheer their task, 

And casks, and boughs on every cask 

To keep the sun's heat from the wine ; 

These I let pass in jingling line, 

And, close on them, dear, noisy crew, 

The peasants from the village, too ; 

For at the very rear would troop 

Their wives and sisters in a group 

To help, I knew ; when these had passed, 

I threw my glove to strike the last. 



The Italian in England. 1 1 5 

Taking the chance : she did not start, 
Much less cry out, but stooped apart, 
One instant rapidly glanced round. 
And saw me beckon from the grouiul : 
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt ; 
She picked my glove up while she stripped 
A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
With that ; my glove lay in her breast : 
Then I drew breath ; they disappeared : 
It was for Italy I feared. 

An hour, and she returned alone 
Exactly where my glove was thrown. 
Meanwhile came many thoughts ; on me 
Rested the hopes of Italy ; 
I had devised a certain tale 
Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail 
Persuade a peasant of its truth ; 
I meant to call a freak of youth 
.This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 
And no temptation to betray. 
But when I saw that woman's face, 
Its calm simplicity of grace — 
Our Italy's own attitude 
In which she walked thus far, and stood, 
Planting each naked foot so tirm, 
To crush the snake and spare the worm — 
At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
•* I am that man upon whose head 
They fix the price, because I hate* 
The Austrians over us : the State 
Will give you gold — oh, gold so inuch ! — 
If you betray me to their clutch. 
And be your death, for aught I know, 
If once they find you saved their foe. 
Now, you must bring me food and drink, 
And also paper, pen and ink. 
And carry safe what I shall write 
To Padua, which you'll reach at night 
Before the duomo shuts ; go in, 
And wait till Tenebrae begin ; 
Walk to the third confessional, 
Between the pillar and the wall. 
And kneeling whisper. Whence conies peace ? 
Say it a second time, then cease ; 
And if the voice inside returns, 
From Christ aJid Freedom ; what concerns 



1 1 6 TJie Italiaji in England. 

The cause of Peace ? — for answer, slip 
My letter where you placed your lip ; 
Then come back hai)py : we have done 
Our mother service — 1, the son, 
As you the daughter of our land ! " 

Three mornings more, she took her stand 
In the same place, with the same eyes: 
I was no surer of sunrise 
Than of her coming- : we conferred 
Of her own prospects, and I heard 
She had a lover — stout and tall, 
She said — then let her eyelids fall, 
" He could do much" — as if some doubt 
Entered her heart, — then, passing out, 
" She could not speak for others, who 
Had other thoughts ; herself she knew : " 
And so she brought me drink and food. 
After four days, the scouts pursued 
Another path ; at last arrived 
The help my Paduan friends contrived 
To furnish me : she brought the news. 
For the first time 1 could not choose 
But kiss her hand, and lay my own 
Upon her head — " This faith was shown 
To Italy, our mother ; she 
Uses my hand and blesses thee." 
She followed down to the sea-shore ; 
I left and never saw her more. 

How very long since I have thought 
Concerning — much less wished for — aught 
Beside the good of Italy, 
For which I live and mean to die ! 
I never was in love ; and since 
Charles proved false, what shall now convince 
My inmost heart I liave a friend ? 
However, if I ])leased to spend 
Real wishes on myself — say, three — 
I know at least what one should be. 
I would grasp Metternich until 
1 felt his red wet throat distill 
In blood through these two hands. And next, 
— Nor much for that am I perplexed — 
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, 
Should die slow of a broken heart 
Under his new employers. Last 
— Ah ! there, what should I wish } For fast 



The EnglisJiman in Italy. 1 1 7 



Do I grow old and out of strength, 
If I resolved to seek at length 
My father's house again, how scared 
They all would look, and unprepared ! 
My brothers live in Austria's pay 
— Disowned me long ago, men say; 
And all my early mates who used 
To praise me so — perhaps induced 
More than one early step of mine — 
Are turning wise : while some opine 
" Freedom grows license," some suspect 
'* Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
They always said, such pi-emature 
Beginnings never could endure ! 
So, with a sullen " All's for best," 
The land seems settling to its rest, 
I think then, I should wish to stand 
This evening in that dear, lost land, 
Over the sea the thousand miles. 
And know if yet that womcin smiles 
With the calm smile ; some little farm 
She lives in there, no doubt : \\ hat harm 
If I sat on the door-side bench, 
And while her spindle made a trench 
Fantastically in the dust. 
Inquired of all her fortunes — just 
Her children's ages and their names, 
And what may be the husband's aims 
For each of them. I'd talk this out. 
And sit there, for an hour about. 
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay 
Mine on her head, and go my way. 

So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. 

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 

PIANO DI SORRENTO. 

FORTU, Fortu, n~iy beloved one, sit here by my side, 

On my knees put up both little feet ! I was sure, if I tried, 

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your 

eyes. 
Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies. 
With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads ; 
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland — the flowers or the 

weeds. 



ii8 The Englishman in Italy. 

Time for rain ! for your long hot dry autumn had net- 
worked with brown 
The white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked Hke a 

quail's crown, 
Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads, 

— specked with white 
Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told you last night, — 
Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, 
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the 

tree. 
And betwixt the loose walls of great fiintstone, or in the thick 

dust 
On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could 

thrust 
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up. 
For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some Ave for one 

cup. 
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was in 

store. 
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me be- 
fore 
I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone, 
And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice 

that's known. 
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while busy 

beneath, 
Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their 

teeth. 
And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split figs lay dry- 
ing, 
The girls took the frails under cover : nor use seemed in trying 
To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff. 
Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind rock. No seeing 

our skiff 
Arrive about noon from Amalfi ! — our fisher arrive, 
And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive, 
With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit ; you touch the 

strange lumps. 
And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of 

humps. 
Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like 

imps. 
Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his 

shrimps ; 
Himself too as bare to the middle — you see round his neck 
The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves liim from 

wreck. 



The EnglisJwian in. Italy. 1 1 9 

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno : so back, to a man, 
Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-har- 
vest began. 
In the vat, half-way up in our house-side, like blood the juice 

spins. 
While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breathless he 

grins 
Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, 
Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh 

plunder 
From girls who keep coming and going with basket on 

shoulder, 
And eyes shut against the rain^s driving; your girls that are 

older, — 
For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed 
Of the orchard's black mold, the love-apple lies pulpy and red, 
All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the 

snails 
Tempted out by this first rainy weather, — your best of regales. 
As to-night wdll be proved to my sorrow^ w'hen, supping in state, 
We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one 

plate) 
With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slippery ropes, 
And gourds fried in great purple slices, that color of popes. 
Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you : the rain- 

w'ater slips 
O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe w^hich the wasp to 

your lips 
Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, wiiile aw'ake. 
This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake 

by flake 
Like an onion, each smoother and wdiiter: next, sip this 

W'Cak wine 
From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the 

vine ; 
And end with the prickly pear's red flesh that leaves through 

its juice 
The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco is loose ! 
Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in 

one's track. 
Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, though not yet 

half black ! 
How the old twisted olive-trunks shudder, the medlars let fall 
Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, figs 

and all, 



I20 TJie EnglisJwian in Italy, 



For here comes the whole of the tempest ! no refuge, but 

creep 
Back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep. 

Oh ! how will your country show next week, when all the 

vine-boughs 
Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and 

the cows ? 
Last eve, I rode over the mountains ; your brother, my guide, 
Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side. 
Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious — or strip from the 

sorbs 
A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy gold orbs ! 
But my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stopping 

to neigh 
When he recognized down in the valley his mates on their way 
With the fagots and barrels of water. And soon we emerged 
From the plain where the woods could scarce follow ; and still, 

as we urged 
Our way, the woods wondered, and left us. Up, up still we 

trudged, 
Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, and place was 

e'en grudged 
'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones like the loose 

broken teeth 
Of some monster which climbed there to die, from the ocean 

beneath — 
Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed that clung to 

the path, 
And dark rosemary ever a-dying, that, 'spite the wind's wrath, 
So loves the salt rock's face to seaward ; and lentisks as stanch 
To the stone where they root and bear berries : and . . . what 

shows a branch 
Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets of pale seagreen leaves ; 
Over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o'er sheaves. 
Still, foot after foot like a lady, still, round after round 
He climbed to the top of Calvano : and God's own profound 
Was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea. 
And within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be. 
Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal ! no rampart excludes 
Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. 
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! still moving 

with you ; 
For, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view 
To observe the intruder ; you see it, if quickly you turn 
And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you 

should learn 



The Englishman in Italy. 121 



How the soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they 

pretend) 
— Cower beneath them, the black sea-pine crouches, the wild 

fruit-trees ])end, 
E'en the myrtle leaves curl, shrink and shut : all is silent and 

grave : 
'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,— how fair ! but a slave. 
So, I turned to the sea ; and there slumbered, as greenly as ever 
Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages can sever 
The Three, nor enable their sister to join them,— half way 
On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses— no farther to-day ! 
Though the small one, just launched in the wave, watches 

breast-high and steady 
From under the rock her bold sister, swum half-way already. 
Fortu, shall we sail there together, and see, from the sides. 
Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts where the siren 

abides ? 
Shall we sail round and round them, close over the rocks, though 

unseen. 
That ruffle the gray glassy water to glorious green } 
Then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach land, and explore, 
On the largest, the strange square black turret with never a 

door. 
Just a loop to admit the quick lizards ? Then, stand tliere and 

hear 
The birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear } 
— The secret they sang to Ulysses when, cTges ago. 
He heard and he' knew this life's secret, I hear and I know. 

Ah, see ! The sun breaks o'er Calvano. He strikes the gr^at 

gloom 
And flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy gold fume. 
All is over. Look out, see, the gypsy, our tinker and smith, 
Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and down-squatted 

forthwith 
To his hammering under the wall there ! One eye keeps aloof 
The urchins that itch to be putting his Jew's-harp to proof. 
While the other, through locks of curled wire, is watching how 

sleek 
Shines the hos^, come to share in the windfall. Chew, abbot's 

own cheek ! 
All is over. Wake up and come out now, and down let us go, 
And see the fine things got in order at church for the show 
Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow's the 

Feast 
Of the Rosary's \'irgin, by no means of Virgins the least : 
As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art) 



122 Up at a Villa — Down in the City. 

The Dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart. 
Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers ; 
All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar ablaze with long 

tapers. 
But the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold 
All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and trumpeters bold 
Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber : who, when the priest's hoarse, 
Will strike us up something that's brisk for the feast's second 

course. 
And then will the fiaxen-wigged Image be carried in pomp 
Through the plain, while, in gallant procession, the priests 

mean to stomp. 
All round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder 

stopped. 
Which will be, when the Image re-enters, religiously popped. 
And at night from the crest of Cah^ano great bonfires will hang: 
On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers 

bang. 
At all events, come — to the garden, as far as the wall ; 
See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out there shall fall 
A scorpion with wide angry nippers ! 

— ** Such trifles ! " 3'ou say ? 
Fortu, in my England at home, men meet gravely to-day 
And debate, if abolishing corn-laws be righteous and wise ! 
— If t'were proper, Scirocco should vanish in black from the 
skies ! 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY. 

(as distinguished by an ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY.) 

I. 
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare. 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square ; 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! 

IT. 
Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast ; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than 

a beast. 

III. 
Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain edge as hare as the creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! 
— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned 

wool. 



up at a Villa — Down i?i the City. 123 

IV. 

But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why ? 
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to 

take the eye ! 
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry ; 
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who 

hurries by ; 
Green bhnds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets 

high; 
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

V. 
What of a villa ? Though winter be over in March by rights, 
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the 

heights : 
You've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam 

and wheeze, 
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive trees. 

VI. 
Is it better in May, 1 ask you ? You've summer all at once ; 
In a day he leaps complete w^ith a few strong April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers 

well, 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and 

sell. 

VII. 

Is it ever hot in the square ? There's a fountain to spout and 

splash ! 
In the shade it sings and springs ; in the shine such foam-bows 

fiash 
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle 

and pash 
Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers do not abash. 
Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a 

sort of sash. 

VJII. 
All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, 
Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. 
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i'the corn and mingle. 
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, 
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs 

on the hill. 
Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever 

and chill. 



124 



up at a Villa — Down in the City. 



/um. 



Jl^ 




.w 



/ ^ ' ' 4"t 



^:^. 




The horses with curling fish-tails. 



IX. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed cliurch-bells 
begin : 

No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : 

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 

By and by there's the traveling doctor — gives pills, lets blood, 
draws teeth, 

Or the Pulcinello-trunipet breaks up the market beneath. 

At the post-office such a scene-picture— the new play, piping 
hot! 

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were 
shot. 

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law 
of the Duke's ! 

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and- 
so 

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, 



Pictor Ignotus. 125 



** And moreover " (the sonnet goes rhyming), " the skirts of 

Saint Paul has reached, 
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous 

than ever he preached." 
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession ! our Lady borne 

smiling and smart, 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck 

in her heart ! 

Bai2g-ivha7ig-wha7ig goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife ; 

No keeping one's haunches still : it's the greatest pleasure in 

life. 

X. 

But bless you, it's dear — it's dear ! fowls, wine, at double the 

rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays 

passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city I 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but still — ah, the pity, the 

pity! 
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls 

and sandals, 
And the penitents dressed in \yhite shirts, a-holding the yellow 

candles ; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with 

handles, 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better pre- 
vention of scandals : 
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life ! 

PICTOR IGNOTUS. 

[FLORENCE, I 5 — .] 

I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's 

Ye praise so. How my soul springs up ! No bar 
Stayed me— ah, thought which saddens while it soothes ! 

— Never did fate forbid me, star by star. 
To outburst on your night, with all my gift 

Of fires from God : nor w^ould my flesh have shrunk 
From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift 

And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk 
To the center, of an instant ; or around 

Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan 
The license and the limit, space and bound, 

Allowed to truth made visible in man. 
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, 



126 Pidor Ignotus. 



Over the canvas could my hand have flung, 
Each face obedient to its passion's law, 

Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue : 
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, 

A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, 
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brcod 

Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place : 
Or Confidence lift swift the forehead up. 

And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved, — 
O human faces ! hath it spilt, my cup ? 

What did ye give me that I have i^iot saved ? 
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well !) 

Of going — I, in each new picture, — forth. 
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, 

To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, 
Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, 

Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, 
Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, 

Through old streets named afresh from the event, 
Till it reached home, where learned age should greet 

My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct 
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet ! — 

Oh ! thus to live, I and my picture, linked 
With love about, and praise, till life should end. 

And then not go to heaven, but linger here. 
Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend, 

The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear ! 
But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights 

Have scared me, like the revels through a door 
Of some strange house of idols at its rites ! 

This world seemed not the world it was, before : 
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped 

. . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun 
To press on me and judge me ? Though I stooped 

Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, 
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough ! 

These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, 
Count them for garniture and household-stuff, 

And where they live needs must our pictures live 
And see their faces, listen to their prate. 

Partakers of their daily pettiness. 
Discussed of, — " This I love, or this I hate. 

This likes me more, and this affects me less ! " 
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles 

My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint 
These endless cloisters and eternal aisles 

With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, 



Pra Lippo Lippi. 127 



With the same cold cahn beautiful regard, — 

At least no. merchant traffics in my heart ; 
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward 

Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart : 
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine 

While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, 
They molder on the damp wall's travertine, 

'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. 
So, die my pictures ; surely, gently die ! 

O youth ! men praise so, —holds their praise its worth ? 
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry ? 

Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth ? 

FRA LTPPO LIPPI. 

I AM poor brother Lippo, by your lea\'e 
You need not clap your torches to my face. 
Zooks ! what's to blame ? you think you see a monk ! 
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, 
And here you catch me at an alley's end 
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar ? 
The Carmine's my cloister : hunt it up. 
Do, — harry out, if you must show your zeal. 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, 
And nips each softling of a wee white mouse, 
Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company ! 
Aha ! you know your betters } Then, you'll'take 
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, 
And please to know me likewise. Who am I ? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 
Three streets off — he's a certain . . . how d'ye call ? 
Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, 
r the house that caps the corner. Boh ! you were best ! 
Remember and tell me the day you're hanged. 
How you affected such a gullet's-gripe ! 
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves 
Pick up a manner, nor discredit you : 
Zooks I are w^e pilchards, that they sweep the streets 
And count fair prize what comes into their net } 
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! 
Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make amends. 
Lord, I'm not angry ! Bid your hangdogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 
Of the munificent House that harbors me 
(And many more beside, lads ! more beside !) 
And all's come square again. I'd like his face — 
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 



128 



Fra Lippo Lippi, 




With 



the 
the 



Anc 
It's 



as 



yet 



I AM POOR BROTHER LiPPO. 



set things straight now, 



the pike and lantern, — for 
slave that holds 
John Baptist's head a-dangle by 

hair 
With one hand (" Look you, now 
who should say) 
I his weapon in the other, 

un wiped ! 
not vour chance to have a bit of 
chalk, 
A wood-coal or the like ? or you should 

see ! 
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style 

me so. 
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and 

down, 
You know them, and they take you ? 

like enough ! 
I saw the proper twinkle in your 

eye — 
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very 

first. 
Let's sit and 

hip to haunch. 
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes u-p bands 
To roam the town and sing out carnival. 
And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints 
And saints again. I could not paint all night — 
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song, — 
Flow €7^ d the broom, 

Take away love, and oiw earth is a fo?nb ! 
Flower d the quince, 

I let Lisa go, a?id what good in life since ? 
Flower a' the thyme — and so on. Round they went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, — three slim shapes, 
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood 
That's all I'm made of ! Into shreds it went, 
Curtain and countei-pane and coverlet, 
All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots, 
There was a ladder ! Down I let myself, 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped. 
And after them. I came up with the fun 
Hard by Saint Lawrence, hail fellow, well met,— 



Fi-a Lippo Lippi. 1 2 ' 



Flower o' the rose, 

If Fve been merry, what matter li'ho knows? 

And so, as I was stealing" back again, 

To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 

Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 

On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast 

With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, 

You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! 

Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head — 

Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — the sting's in that ! 

If Master Cosimo announced himself. 

Mum's the word naturally ; but a monk ! 

Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now ! 

I was a baby when my mother died 

And father died and left me in the street. 

I starved there, God knows how, a year or two 

On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, 

Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, 

My stomach being empty as your hat, 

The wind doubled me up and dowm I went. 

Old aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand 

(Its fellow^ was a stinger, as I knew) 

And so along the wall, over the bridge, 

By the straight cut to the convent. Six w^ords there, 

While I stood munching my first bread that month : 

*'So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father 

W^iping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time, — 

*' To quit this very miserable world ? 

Will you renounce "...'* the mouthful of bread ? " 

thought I ; 
By no means ! Brief, they made a monk of me ; 
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, 
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house ; 
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 
Have given their hearts to — all at eight years old. 
W^ell, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 
'Twas not for nothing — the good bellyful, 
The w^arm serge and the rope that goes all round, 
And day-long blessed idleness beside ! 
" Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that came next. 
Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 
Such a to-do ! They tried me with their books : 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! 
Flower <?' the clove. 

All the Latin I construe is, '' Anio " / love I 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets 
Eight years together as my fortune was, 



130 Fra Lippo Lippi. 



Watching folk's faces to know who will f^ing" 

The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 

And who will curse or kick him for his pains, — 

Which gentleman processional and fine, 

Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 

Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 

The droppings of the wax to sell again, 

Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, — 

How say I ? — nay, which dog bites, which lets drop 

His bone frOm the heap of offal in the street, — 

Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, 

He learns the look of things, and none the less 

For admonition from the hunger pinch. 

I had a store of such remarks, be sure, 

Which, after I found leisure, turned to use : 

I drew men's faces on my copy-books, 

Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 

Joined legs and.arms to the long music-notes. 

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, 

And made a string of pictures of the world 

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun. 

On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked 

black. 
" Nay," quoth the Prior, ** turn him out, d'ye say ? 
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 
What if at last we get our man of parts. 
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese 
And Preaching Friars, to do our Church up fine 
And put the front on it that ought to be ! " 
And hereupon he bade me daub away. 
Thank you ! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First every sort of monk, the black and white, 
1 drew them, fat and lean : then, folks at church, 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, — 
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot. 
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 
With the little children round him in a row 
Of admiration, half for his beard, and half 
For that white anger of his victim's son 
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm. 
Signing himself with the other because of Christ 
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
After the passion of a thousand years), 
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head 
(Which the intense eyes looked through), came at eve 



Fra Lippo Lip pi. 131 



On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 

Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers 

(The brute took growhng), prayed, and so was gone. 

I painted all, then cried, " 'Tis ask and have ; 

Choose, for inore's ready ! " — laid the ladder flat, 

And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 

The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 

Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, 

Being simple bodies, — " That's the very man ! 

Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog ! 

That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 

To care about his asthma : it's the life ! " 

But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked ; 

Their betters took their turn to see and say : 

The Prior and the learned pulled a face 

And stopped all that in no time. " How ? what's here ? 

Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all ! 

Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true 

As much as pea and pea I it's devil's game I 

Your business is not to catch men with show, 

With homage to the perishable clay. 

But lift them over it, ignore it all. 

Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. 

Your business is to paint the souls of men — 

Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . « 

It's vapor done up like a new-born babe — 

(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth). 

It's . . . well, wdiat matters talking, it's the soul! 

Give us no more of body than shows soul ! 

Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, 

That sets us praising, — why not stop with him.^ 

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head 

With wonder at lines, colors, and what not! 

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms ! 

Rub all out, try at it a second time ! 

Oh ! that white smallish female with the breasts, 

She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I w ould say, — 

Who w^nt and danced, and got men's heads cut off! 

Have it all out ! " Now% is this sense, I ask ? 

A fine way to paint soul, by painting body 

So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go farther 

And can't fare worse ! Thus vellow does for white 

When what you put for yellow's simply black. 

And any sort of meaning looks intense 

When all beside itself means and looks naught. 

Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, ^ 

Left foot and right foot, go a double step, 



1^2 Fra Lippo Lippi. 



Make his flesh hker and his soul morehke, 
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, 
The Prior's niece . . . patron saint — is it so pretty 
You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? 
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash. 
And then add soul and heighten them threefold ? 
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all — 
(I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 
If you get simple beauty and naught else, 
You get about the best thing God invents : 
That's somewhat : and you'll find the soul you have missed, 
Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 
'' Rub all out ! " Well, well, there's my life, in short, 
And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds : 
You should not take a fellow eight years old 
And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I please — 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes than just 
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse ! 
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, 
The heads shake still—*' It's art's decline, my son ! 
You're not of the true painters, great and old ; 
Brother Angelico's the m.an, you'll find; 
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer : 
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third I " 
Flower o' the Pifte, 
You keep your mistr . . . Planners, and Vll stick to 

mine ! 
I'm not the third, then : bless us, they must know ! 
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know. 
They with their Latin ? So, I swallow my rage, 
Clinch my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint 
To please them — sometimes do, and sometimes don't; 
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints — 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world — 
{^Flower o' the peach. 

Death for us all, and his ow7i life for each!) 
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, 
And I do these wild things in sheer despite. 



Fra Lippo Lippi, 133 

And play the fooleries you catch me at 

In pure, rage ! The old mill-horse, out at grass 

After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 

Although the miller does not preach to him 

The only good of grass is to make chaff. 

What would men have ? Do they like grass or no — 

May they or mayn't they ? all I want's the thing 

Settled forever one way. As it is, 

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself : 

You don't like what you only like too much, 

You do like what, if given you at your word, 

You find abundantly detestable. 

For me, I think I speak as I was taught. 

I always see the garden, and God there 

A-making man's wife : and, my lesson learned, 

The value and significance of flesh, 

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterward. 

You understand me : I'm a beast, I know. 

But see, now — why, I see as certainly 

As that the morning star's about to shine. 

What will hap some day. We've a youngster here 

Comes to our convent, studies what I do, 

Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop : 

His name is Guidi — he'll not mind the monks — 

They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk — 

He picks my practice up — he'll paint apace, 

I hope so — though I never live so long, 

I know what's sure to follow. You be judge ! 

You speak no Latin, more than I, belike; 

However, you're my man, you've seen the world 

— The beauty and the wonder and the power. 

The shapes of things, their colors, lights, and shades, 

Changes, surprises, — and God made it all ! 

— For what } Do you feel thankful, ay or no. 

For this fair town's face, yonder river's line. 

The mountain round it and the sky above. 

Much more the figures of man, woman, child, 

These are the frame to ? What's it all about ? 

To be passed over, despised.^ or dwelt upon, 

Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! — you say. 

But why not do as well as say, — paint these 

Just as they are, careless what comes of it? 

God's works — paint anyone, and count it crime 

To let a truth slip. Don't object, " His works 

Are here already ; nature is complete : 

Suppose you reproduce her — (which you can't) 

There's no advantage ! you must beat her, then." 



134 P^'<^ Lippo Lippi. 



For, don'l you mark ? we're made so that we love 

First when we see them painted, things w^e have passed 

Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ; 

And so they are better, painted— better to us, 

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that ; 

God uses us to help each other so. 

Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now 

Your culhon's hanging face ? A bit of chalk, 

And trust me but you should, though ! How much more 

If I drew higher things with the same truth ! 

That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 

Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, 

It makes me mad to see what men shall do 

And we in our graves ! This world's no blot for us 

Nor blank ; it means intensely, and means good : 

To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 

*' Av, but you don't so instigate to prayer ! " 

Strikes in the Prior : " when your meaning's plain 

It does not say to folks — remember matins, 

Or, mind you fast next Friday !" Why, for this 

What need of art at all } A skull and bones. 

Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what's best, 

A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 

I painted a Saint Lawrence six months since 

At Prato, splaslied the fresco in fine style: 

*' How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down .^ '* 

I ask a brother: " Hugely," he returns — 

" Already not one phiz of your three slaves 

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 

But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, 

The pious people have so eased their own 

W^ith coming to say prayers there in a rage : 

We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 

Expect another job this time next year. 

For pity and religion grow i' the crowd — 

Your painting serves its purpose ! " Hang the fools ! 

— That is — you'll not mistake an idle word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Got wot 
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine ! 
Oh, the church knows ! don't misreport me, now 
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 
Should have his apt word to excuse himself: 
And hearken how I plot to make amends. 
I have bethought me : I shall paint a piece 
. . . There's for you ! Give me six months, then go, see 



Fra Lippo Lippi. 135 



Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! Bless the nuns ! 

They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 

God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 

Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, 

Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 

As puff on puff of grated orris-root 

When ladies crowd to church at midsummer. 

And then i' the front, of course a saint or two — 

Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, 

Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white 

The convent's friends and gives them a long day, 

And Job, I must have him there past mistake 

The man of Uz (and Us without the z. 

Painters who need his patience). Well, all these 

Secured at their devotion, up shall come 

Out of a corner when you least expect, 

As one by a dark stair into a great light. 

Music and talking, who but Lippo I I I — 

Mazed, motionless, and moon-struck — I'm the man ! 

Back I shiink — what is this I see and hear.^ 

I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake, 

My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, 

I, in this presence, this pure company ! 

Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape ? 

Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 

Forward, puts out a soft palm — " Not so fast ! " 

— Addresses the celestial presence, '* nay — 

He made you and devised you, after all, 

Though he's none of you ! Could Saint John there, draw- 

His camel-hair make up a painting-brush } 

We come to brother Lippo for all that, 

Iste perfecit opus!'' So, all s m i 1 e — 

I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 

Under the cover of a hundred wings 

Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay 

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut* 

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 

The hot-head husband ! Thus I scuttle off 

To some safe bench behind, not letting go 

The palm of her, the little lily thing 

That spoke the good word for me in the nick. 

Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. 

And so all's saved for me, and for the church 

A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence ! 

Your hand, sir, and good-by : no lights, no lights ! 

The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, 

Don't fear me ! There's the gray beginning. Zooks ! 



136 



Andrea del Sarto. 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 

(CALLED ''THE FAULTLESS PAINTER.") 

But do not let us quarrel any more, 

No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once : 

Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 

You turn your face, but does it bring your heart } 

I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, 

Treat his own subject after his ow^n way, 




•Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 

Fix his own time, accept too his own price, 
And shut the money into this small hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow. Love ! 
I often am much wearier than you think, 
This evening more than usual : and it seems 
As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 
Here by the window, with your hand in mine, 
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 
Both of one mind, as married people use, 
Quietly, quietly the evening through, 



Andrea del Sar to. 137 

I might get up to-morrow to my work 

Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 

To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this I 

Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 

And mine, the man's bared breast she curls inside. 

Don't count the time lost, neither ; you must serve 

For each of the hve pictures we require : 

It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — 

My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! 

— How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 

Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — 

My face, my moon, my everybody's moon. 

Which everybody looks on and calls his, 

And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. 

While she looks — no one's: very dear, no less. 

You smile ? why, there's my picture ready made, 

There's what we painters call our harmony ! 

A common grayness silvers everything,— 

All in a twilight, you and I alike 

— You, at the point of your first pride in me 

(That's gone, you know) — but I, at every point ; 

My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down 

To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 

There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top ; 

That length of convent-wall across the way 

Holds the trees safer, huddled m6re inside ; 

The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease, 

And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 

Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape. 

As if I saw alike my work and self 

And all that I was born to be and do, 

A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. 

How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead ; 

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 

I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie ! 

This chamber, for example — turn your head — ■ 

All that's Dehind us ! You don't understand 

Nor care to understand about my art, 

But you can hear at least when people speak : 

And that cartoon, the second from the door 

— It is the thing. Love ! so such things should be: 

Behold Madonna ! — I am bold to say. 

I can do with my pencil what I know, 

What I see, what at bottom of my heart 

I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 

Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 

I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are judge, 



138 Andrea del Sarto. 



Who listened to the Legate's talk last week ; \ 

And just as much they used to say in France. | 

At any rate 'tis easy, all of it ! \ 

No sketches first, no studies, that's long past : i 

I do what many dream of, all their lives, 1 

— Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do, ' 

And fail in doing. I could count twenty such : 
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, 

Who strive — you don't know how the others strive " 

To paint a little thing like that you smeared \ 
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, 
(I know his name, no matter) — so much less ! 

Well, less is more, Lucrezia : 1 am judged. j 

There burns a truer light of God in them, \, 

In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, ; 

Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt ; 

This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. * \ 

Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, j 

Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me. ^ 

Enter and take their place there sure enough, \ 

Though tliey come back and cannot tell the world. ; 

My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. ; 

The sudden blood of these men ! at a word — \ 

Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. ; 

I, painting from myself and to myself, : 

Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame j 

Or their praise either. Somebody remarks J 

Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, ■ 
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, 

Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that ? _; 

Speak as they please, what does the mountain care ? \ 

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. j 

Or what's a heaven for } All is silver-gray, \ 

Placid and perfect with my art : the worse ! ''■ 
I know both what I want and what might gain : 

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh ^ 

** Had I been two, another and myself, | 

Our head would have o'erlpoked the world ! " No doubt. j 

Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth i 

The Urbinate who died fi\'e years ago. \ 

('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) \ 

Well, I can fancy how he did it all, \ 

Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, \ 

Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, \ 

Above and through his art — for it gives way; \ 

That arm is wrongly put — and there again — • , 



Andrea del Sarto. 139 



A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, 

Its body, so to speak ; its soul is right, 

He means right — that, a child may understand. 

Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 

But all the play, the insight and the stretch — 

Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out ? 

Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, 

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. 

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 

More than I merit, yes, by many times. 

But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow. 

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 

And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 

The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 

Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! 

Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged 

" God and the glory ! never care for gain. 

The present by the future, what is that ? 

Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 

Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three ! " 

I might have done it for you. So it seems : 

Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 

Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; 

The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? 

What wife had Rafael, or has Aonolo ? 

In this world, who can do a thing, will not ; 

And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 

Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — 

And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 

God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 

'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict. 

That I am something underrated here, 

Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 

I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 

The best is when they pass and look aside ; 

But they speak sometimes : I must bear it all. 

Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time. 

And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 

I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 

Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, 

In that humane great monarch's golden look, — 

One finger in his beard or twisted curl 

Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, 

One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, 

The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 

I painting proudly with his breath on me. 



140 Andrea del Sarto. 



All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, 

Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — 

And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond. 

This in the background, waiting on my work, 

To crown the issue with a last reward ! 

A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? 

And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — 

'Tis done and past ; 'twas right, my instinct said ; 

Too live the life grew, golden and not gray : 

And I'm the w^eak-eyed bat no sun should tempt 

Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 

How could it end in any other way? 

You called me, and I came home to your heart. 

The triumph was, to have ended there; then, if 

I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? 

Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, 

You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 

" Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ; 

The Roman's is the better w^hen you pray, 

But still the other's Virgin was his wife " — 

Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 

Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows 

My better fortune, I resolve to think. 

For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives. 

Said one day Agnolo, his very self, 

To Rafael ... 1 have known it all these years . . . 

(When the young man w^as flaming out his thoughts 

Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see. 

Too lifted up in heart because of it) 

*• Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub 

Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how. 

Who, were he set to plan and execute 

As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, 

W^ould bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" 

To Rafael's !— And indeed the arm is wrong. 

I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 

Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go! 

Ay, but the soul ! he's Rafael ! rub it out ! 

Still, all 1 care for, if he spoke the truth, 

(What he.^ why, who but Michel Agnolo.^ 

Do you forget already words like those ?) 

If really there was such a chance so lost, — 

Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more pleased. 

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! 

This hour has been an hour ! Another smile ? 

If you would sit thus by me every night 



Andrea del Sarto. 141 



I should work better, do you comprehend ? 

I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 

See, it is settled dusk now ; there's a star ; 

Morello's gone, the w^atch-lights show the wall, 

The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 

Come from the window, love, — come in, at last, 

Inside the melancholy little house 

We built to be so gay with. God is just : 

King Francis may forgive me ; oft at night 

When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 

The walls become illumined, brick from brick 

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. 

That gold of his I did cement them with ! 

Let us but love each other. Must you go ? 

That cousin here again ? he waits outside ? 

Must see you — you, and not with me ? Those loans ? 

More gaming debts- to pay ? you smiled for that ? 

Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more to spend ? 

While hand and eye and something of a heart 

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth ? 

I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 

The gray remainder of the evening out, 

Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 

How I could paint, were I but back in France, 

One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face. 

Not yours this time ! I want you at my side 

To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 

Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 

Will you } To-morrow satisfy your friend, 

I take the subjects for his corridor, 

Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. 

And throw him in another thing or two 

If he demurs : the whole should prove enough 

To pay for this same cousin's freak. Beside, 

What's better and what's all I care about, 

Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff ! 

Love, does that please you ? Ah, but what does he, 

The cousin — what does he to please you more.^ 

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
I regret little, I would change still less : 
Since there my past life lies, why alter it ? 
The very wrong to Francis ! — it is true 
I took his coin, was tempted and complied, 
And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 
My father and my mother died of want. 
Well, had I riches of my own } you see. 



142 The Bishop Orders his Tomb, 

How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. 

They were born poor, hved poor, and poor they died : 

And I have labored somewhat in my time 

And not been paid profusely. Some good son 

Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try ! 

No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, 

You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 

This must suffice me here. What would one have } 

In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — 

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 

Meted on each side by the angel's reed. 

For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me 

To cover — the three first without a wife. 

While I have mine ! So— still they overcome 

Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. 

Again the cousin's whistle ! Go, my love. 

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT 
PRAXED'S CHURCH. 

[ROME, 15 — .] 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity ; 

Draw round my bed : is Anselm keeping back } 

Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I know not ! Well — 

She, men would have to be your mother once. 

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! 

What's done is done, and she is dead beside, 

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, 

And as she died so must we die ourselves, 

And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. 

Life, how and what is it.^^ As here I lie 

In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 

Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 

*' Do I live, am I dead } " Peace, peace seems all. 

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace ; 

And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought 

With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know ; 

— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care ; 

Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South 

He graced his carrion with, God curse the same ! 

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 

One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side. 

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats. 

And up into the aery dome where live 

The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk ; 

/\nd I shall fill my slab of basalt there. 



The Bishop Orders his Tomb, 143 

And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, 

With those nine columns round me, two and two. 

The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands : 

Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe 

As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse, 

— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. 

Put me where I may look at him ! True peach. 

Rosy and fiawless : how I earned the prize ! 

Draw close : that conflagration of my church 

— What then ? So much w^as saved if aught were missed ! 

My sons, ye would not be my death ! Go dig 

The white grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, 

Drop water gently till the surface sink, 

And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I ! . . . 

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft. 

And corded up in a tight olive-frail, 

Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, 

Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 

Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . 

Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, 

That brave Frascati villa with its bath. 

So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, 

Like God the leather's globe on both his hands 

Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, 

P^or Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst ! 

Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years : 

Man goeth to the grave, and where is he ? 

Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons ? Black — 

'Twas ever antique-black I meant ! How else 

Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath ? 

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, 

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance 

Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, 

The Saviour at his sermon on the mount. 

Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 

Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off. 

And Moses with the tables . . . but I know 

Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper thee. 

Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope 

To revel down my villas while 1 gasp 

Bricked o'er with beggar's moldy travertine 

Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at ! 

Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then ! 

'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve 

My baths must needs be left behind, alas ! 

One block, pure green as a pistachio nut. 

There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world— 



144 T)^^ Bishop Orders his Tomb. 

And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray 

Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, 

And mistresses with great smooth marbly hmbs ? 

—That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 

Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, 

No gaudy ware Hke Gandolf's second Hne — 

Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need ! 

And then how I shall lie through centuries. 

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 

And see God made and eaten all day long, 

And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste 

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke ! 

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, 

Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, 

And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, 

And let the bedclothes, for a mort-cloth, drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work : 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts 

Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, 

About the life before I lived this life, 

And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, 

Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, 

Your tall, pale mother with her talking eyes, 

And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, 

And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, 

— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? 

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! 

Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. 

All lapiSy all, sons ! Else I give the Pope 

My villas ! "^ Will ye ever eat my heart ? 

Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, 

They glitter like your mother's for my soul, 

Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, 

Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase 

With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, 

And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 

That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 

To comfort me on my entablature 

W^hereon I am to lie till I must ask 

" Do I live ? am I dead ? " There, leave me, there ! 

For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 

To death : ye wish it — God, ye wish it! Stone — 

Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares which sweat 

As if the corpse they keep were oozing through — 

And no more lap.is to delight the world ! 

Well go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there. 



A Toccata of GahcppVs. 145 

But in a row : and, going, turn your backs 

— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 

And leave me in my church, the church for peace, 

That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 

Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone, 

As still he envied me, so fair she was I 

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. 
I. 

Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find ! 

1 can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and 

bhnd : 
But, although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy 
mind ! 

IT. 

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it 

brings. 
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were 

the kings. 
Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with 

rings ? 

III. 

Ay, because the sea's the street there ; and 'tis arched by . . . 

what you call 
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the 

carnival : 
I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. 

IV. 

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm 

in May } 
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, 
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you 

say ? 

V. 

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — 
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, 
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base 
his head } 

VI. 

Well, and it was graceful of them : they'd break talk off and 

afford 
— She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he. to fi'nger on his sword, 
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? 



,^^ 




She, to bite her mask's black velvet. 



A Toccata of GaluppVs. 147 

J^ , -, _ ^ . : . .. ^— . . . — . . , 

VII. 

What? Those lesser thu'ds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh 

on sigh, 
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions — 

'' Must we die ? " 
Those commiserating sevenths — ** Life might last ! we can but 

try ! " 

VIII. 

" Were you happy ? " — ** Yes." — "And are you still as happy ? " 

— " Yes. And you ? " 
— " Then, more kisses ! " — " Did / stop them, when a million 

seemed so few ? " 
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to ! 

IX. 
So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare 

say ! 
*' Brave Galuppi ! that w^as music ! good alike at grave and gay ! 
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play ! " 

X. 

Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, 
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well 

undone, 
Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never see the 

sun. 

XI. 
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, 
While I triumph o'er a secret wn'ungfrom nature's close reserve. 
In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. 

XII. 
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was 

burned : 
** Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what 

Venice earned. 
The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned. 

XIII. 
" Yours for instance : you know physics, something of geology. 
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree ; 
Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be ! 

XIV. 
** As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the 

crop : 
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop ? 



14^ How it Strikes a Contemporary, 



XV. 

" Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want the heart to 

scold. 
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the 

gold 
Used to hang and brush their bosoms } I feel chilly and grown 

old. 

HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. . 

I ONLY knew one poet in my life : 

And this, or something like it, was his way. 

You saw go up and down Valladolid, 
A man of mark, to know next time you saw. 
His very serviceable suit of black 
Was courtly once and conscientious still, 
And many might have worn it, though none did : 
The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, 
Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. 
He walked, and tapped the pavement with his cane, 
Scenting the world, looking it full in face : 
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. 
They turned up, now, the alley by the church, 
That leads no whither ; now, they breathed themselves 
On the main promenade just at the wrong time. 
You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat. 
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself 
Against the single window spared some house 
Intact yet with its moldered Moorish work, — 
Or else surprise the ferrule of his stick 
Trying the mortar's temper 'tw^een the chinks 
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. 
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, 
The man who slices lemons into drink, 
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys 
That volunteer to help him turn its winch. 
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, 
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, 
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. 
He took such cognizance of men and things. 
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw^ ; 
If any cursed a woman, he took note; 
Yet stared at nobody, — you stared at him. 
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise. 
He seemed to know you and expect as much. 
So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, 
It marked the shameful and notorious fact 



How it Strikes a Contemporary. 149 



We had among us, not so much a spy, 

As a recording chief-inquisitor, 

The town's true master if the town but knew ! 

We merely kept a governor for form, 

While this man walked about and took account 

Of all thought, said and acted, tlien went home, 

And wrote it fully to our Lord the King 

Who has an itch to know things, he knows why. 

And reads them in his bedroom of a night. 

Oh, you might smile ! there w^anted not a touch, 

A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease, 

As back into your mind the man's look came. 

Stricken in years a little, such a brow 

His eyes had to live under ! — clear as flint 

On either side o' the formidable nose 

Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw. 

Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate? 

When altogether old B. disappeared. 

And young C. got his mistress, — was't our friend, 

His letter to the King, that did it all? 

What paid the bloodless man for so much pains ? 

Our Lord the King has favorites manifold. 

And shifts his ministry some once a month : 

Our city gets new governors at whiles, — 

But never word or sign, that I could hear, 

Notified, to this man about the streets. 

The King's approval of those letters conned 

The last thing duly at the dead of night. 

Did the man love his office ? Frowned our Lord, 

Exhorting when none heard — " Beseech me not ! 

Too far above my people,— beneath me ! 

I set the watch, — how should the people know ? 

Forget them, keep me all the more in mind ! " 

Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? 

I found no truth in one report at least — 
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes 
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, 
You found he ate his supper in a room 
Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall. 
And twenty naked girls to change his plate ! 
Poor man, he lived another kind of life 
In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, 
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise ! 
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, 
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, 
Playing a decent cribbage with -his maid 



1^6 Prohis, 



(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese 
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, 
Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, 
Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. 

My father like the man of sense he was, 
Would point him out to me a dozen times : 
"■ St — St," he'd whisper, " the Corregidor ! " 
I had been used to think that personage 
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, 
And feathers like a forest in his hat, 
Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, 
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, 
And memorized the miracle in vogue ! 
He had a great observance from us boys ; 
We were in error ; that was not the man. 

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, 
To have just looked, when this man came to die, 
And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides. 
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed. 
With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. 
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, 
Through a whole campaign of the world's life and death. 
Doing the King's work all the dim day long. 
In his old coat and up to knees in mud. 
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, — 
And, now the day was won, relieved at once ! 
No further show or need of that old coat. 
You are sure, for one thing ! Bless us, all the while 
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I ! 
A second, and the angels alter that. 
Well, I could never write a verse, — could you ? 
Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. 

PROTUS. 

Among these latter busts we count by scores, 

Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, 

Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, 

Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast, — 

One loves a baby face, with violets there, 

Violets instead of laurel in the hair. 

As those were all the little locks could bear. 

Now read here. " Protus ends a period 
Of empery beginning with a god ; 
Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, 
Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant : 



Profits. 151 



And if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire 

Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. 

A fame that he was missing, spread afar : 

The world, from its four corners, rose in war, 

Till he was borne out on a balcony 

To pacify the world when it should see. 

The captains ranged before him, one, his hand 

Made baby points at, gained the chief command. 

And day by day more beautiful he grew 

In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, 

While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child 

Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled. 

Already sages labored to condense 

In easy tomes a life's experience : 

And artists took grave counsel to impart 

In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, 

And make his graces prompt as blossoming 

Of plentifully watered palms in spring : 

Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne. 

For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, 

And mortals love the letters of his name." 

— Stop ! Have you turned two pages } Still the same. 

New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say 

How that same year, on such a month and day, 

** John the Pannonian, groundedly believed 

A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved 

The Empire from its fate the year before, — 

Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore 

The same for six years (during which the Huns 

Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons 

Put something in his liquor " — and so forth. 

Then a new reign. Stay — *' Take at its just worth " 

(Subjoins an annotator) " What I give 

As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live 

And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached man's age 

At some blind northern court ; made first a page, 

Then tutor to the children ; last, of use 

About the hunting stables. I deduce 

He wrote the little tract ' On worming dogs,' 

WHiereof the name in sundry catalogues 

Is extant yet. A Protus of the race 

Is rumored to have died a monk in Thrace, — 

And, if the same, he reached senility." 

Here's John the smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye, 
Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can 
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man I 



152 Master Ungues of Saxe- Gotha, 

MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. 
I. 

Hist, but a word, fair and soft ! 

Forth and be judged, Master Hugues ! 
Answer the question Eve put you so oft : 

What do you mean by your mountainous fugues ? 
See, we're alone in the loft, — 

II. 

I, the poor organist here, 

Hugues, the composer of note, 
Dead though, and done with, this many a year : 

Let's have a colloquy, something to quote, 
Make the world prick up its ear ! 

III. 

See, the church empties apace : 

Fast they extinguish the lights. 
Hallo there, sacristan ! Five minutes' grace ! 

Here's a crank pedal wants setting to rights, 
Balks one of holding the base. 

IV. 

See, our huge house of the sounds, 

Hushing its hundreds at once, 
Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds ! 

— Oh, you may challenge them ! not a response 
Get the church-saints on their rounds ! 

V. 

(Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt ? 

— March, with the moon to admire. 
Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, 

Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire. 
Put rats and mice to the rout — 

VI. 

Aloys and Jurien and Just — 

Order things back to their place. 
Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust. 

Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, 
Clear the desk-velvet of dust.) 

VII. 

Here's your book, younger folks shelve ! 
Played I not off-hand and runningly. 



Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha. 153 

Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve ? 
Here's what should strike, could one handle it 
cunningly : 
Help the ax, give it a helve ! 

VIII. 
Page after page as I played. 

Every bar's rest, where one wipes 
Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and surveyed, 

O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes 
Whence you still peeped in the shade. 

IX. 

Sure you were wishful to speak, 

You, with brow ruled like a score, 
Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek, 

Like two great breves, as they.wrote them of yore, 
Each side that bar, your straight beak ! 

X. 

Sure you said — " Good, the mere notes ! 

Still, could'st thou take my intent, 
Know what procured me our Company's votes— 

A master were lauded and sciolists shent, 
Parted the sheep from the goats ! " 

XI. 

Well then, speak up, never flinch ! 

Quick, ere my candle's a snuff 
— Burnt, do you see.^ to its uttermost inch — 

I believe in you, but that's not enough : 
Give my conviction a clinch ! 

XII. 
First you deliver your phrase 

— Nothing propound, that I see. 
Fit in itself for much blame or much praise — 

Answered no less, where no answer needs be : 
Off start the Two on their ways. 

XIII. 
Straight must a Third interpose, 

Volunteer needlessly help ; 
In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose, 

So the cry's open, the kennel's a-yelp, 
Argument's hot to the close. 

XIV. 
One dissertates, he is candid ; 

Two must discept, — has distinguished , 



154 Master Ungues of Saxe-Gotha, 

Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did ; 

Fourth protests ; Five makes a dart at the thing wished 
Back to One, goes the case bandied. 

XV. 

One says his say with a difference : 

More of expounding, explaining ! 
All now is wrangle, abuse, and vocife ranee ; 

Now there's a truce, all's subdued, self-restraining : 
Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. 

XVI. 
One is incisive, corrosive ; 

Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant ; 
Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive ; 

Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant : 
Five . . . O Danaitdes, O Sieve ! 

XVII. 

Now they ply axes and crowbars ; 

Now, they prick pins at a tissue 
Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's 

Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue ? 
Where is our gain at the Two-bars } 

XVIII. 

Est fug a, volvitiir rota. 

On we drift : where looms the dim port ? 
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota ; 

Something is gained, if one caught but the import ; 
Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha ! 

XIX. 

What with affirming, denying, 

Holding, risposting, subjoining, 
AU'slike. . . it's like . . . for an instance I'm trying . . , 

There ! See our roof, its gilt molding and groining 
Under those spider-webs lying ! 

XX. 

So your fugue broadens and thickens, 

Greatens and deepens and lengthens, 
Till we exclaim — " But where's music, the dickens ? 

Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens 
— Blacked to the stoutest of tickens } " 

XXI. 

I for man's effort am zealous : 
Prove me such censure unfounded I 



Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotna. 155 

Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous — 

Hopes 'twas for something, his organ-pipes sounded, 
Tiring three boys at the bellows ? 

XXII. 

Is it your moral of Life ? 

Such a web, simple and subtle, 
Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, 

Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, 
Death ending ail with a knife ? 

XXIII. 

Over our heads truth and nature — 

Still our life's zigzags and dodges, 
Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature — 

God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, 
Palled beneath man's us rpature. 

XXIV. 

So we o'ershroud stars and roses, 

Cherub and trophy and garland ; 
Nothings grow something which quietly closes 

Heaven's earnest eye ; not a glimpse of the far land ' 
Gets through our comments and glozes. 

XXV. 

Ah, but traditions, inventions 

(Say we and make up a visage) 
So many men with such various intentions, 

Down the past ages, must know more than this age ! 
Leave we the web its dimensions ! 

XXVI. 
Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, 

Proved a mere mountain in labor ? 
Better submit ; try again ; what's the clef? 

'Faith, 'tis no trifle for pipe and for tabor- 
Four flats, the^minor in F. 

XXVII. 

Friend, your fugue taxes the finger : 

Learning it once, who would lose it } 
Yet all the w^hile a misgiving will linger, 

Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it — ^ 
Nature, through cobwebs we string her. 

XXVIII. 

Hugues ! I advise ined pceiid 

(Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) 



156 Abt Vogler, 



Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena ! 

Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, 
Blare out the mode Palestri7ia, 

XXIX. 

While in the roof, if Fm right there, 

. . . Lo you, the wick in the socket ! 
Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there ! 

Down it dips, gone like a rocket. 
What, you want, do you, to come unawares. 
Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers. 
And find a poor devil has ended his cares 
At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs .^^ 

Do I carry the moon in my pocket } 

ABT VOGLER. 

(after he has been extemporizing upon the musical 
instrument of his invention.) 

I. 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, 

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon 
willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of aim. 

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep re- 
moved, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable 
Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he 
loved ! 

II. 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine. 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to 
raise ! 
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now 
combine, 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down 
to hell. 
Burrow a while and build, broad on the roots of things. 
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace 
well. 
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 



Abt Vogler. 157 



III. 
And another would mount and march, hke the excellent minion 
he was, 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a 
crest, 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, 

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest ; 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, 
When a great illumination surprises a festal night — 
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul 
was in sight. 

IV. 

In sight } Not half ! for it seemed, it was certain, to match 
man's birth, 
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I ; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach 
the earth. 
As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the 
sky: 
Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, 
Not a point nor peak but found, but fixed its wandering star ; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale nor pine, 
For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near 
nor far. 

V. 

Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and 
glow. 
Presences plafn in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow. 
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last : 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body 
and gone. 
But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth 
their new : 
What never had been, was now ; what was, as it shall be anon ; 
And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? for I was made 
perfect too. 

VI. 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my 
soul. 
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibl) 
forth, 
All through music and me ! For think, had I painted the whole, 
WMiy, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder- 
worth. 



158 Abt Vogler. 



Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds from 
cause, 

Ye know why the forms are fair, 3^e hear how the tale is told ; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 

Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled : — 

VII. 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 

Existent behind all laws : that made them, and, lo, thev 



And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, 
That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a 
star. 
Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is naught ; 
It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thought, 

And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow 
the head ! 

VIII. 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared : 

Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come too 
slow ; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, 

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 
Never to be again ! But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort to me ? 
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 

To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what 
was, shall be. 

IX. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name ? 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands ! 
What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same ? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power 
expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good ! What was, shall live as 
before ; 
The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound ; 
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good 
more ; 
On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect round. 

X. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; 

Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 



Two in the Campagnct. 159 

The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; 

Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear it by and by. 

XI. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 

For the fullness of the days ? Have we withered or agon- 
ized ? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might 
issue thence ? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be 
prized ? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow^ to clear, 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe ; 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear ; 

The rest may reason and welcome ; 'tis we musicians know. 

XII. 

Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign : 

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, 

Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, — yes, 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, 

Surveying a while the heights I rolled from into the deep ; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is 
found, 

The C Major of this life : so, now I will try to sleep. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I. 
I WONDER do you feel to-day 

As I have felt since, hand in hand, 
We sat down on the grass, to stray 

In spirit better through the land, 
This morn of Rome and May ? 

II. 
For me, I touched a thought, I know, 

Has tantalized me many times 
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 

Mocking across our path), for rhymes 
To catch at and let go. 

III. 
Help me to hold it ! First it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 



i6o 



Two in the Campagna. 




We sat down on the grass. 

There, branching from the brick-work's cleft, 

Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed 
Took up the floating weft, 

IV. 

Where one small orange cup amassed 
Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 

Among the honey-meal : and last. 
Everywhere on the grassy slope, 

I traced it. Hold it fast ! 



The champaign with its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Rome's ghost since her decease. 



VI. 



Such life here, through such lengths of hours, 
Such miracles performed in play, 



Two in the Campagna. 16 1 

Such primal naked forms of flowers, 
Such letting nature have her way 
While heaven looks from its towers ! 

VII. 

How say you ? Let us, O my dove, 

Let us be unashamed of soul, 
As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 

How is it under our control 
To love or not to love ? 

VIII. 

I would that you were all to me. 

You that are just so much, no morCo 
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 

Where does the fault lie ? What the core 
O' the wound, since wound must be ? 

IX. 

I would I could adopt your will, 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 
Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 
In life, for good and ill. 

X. 

No. I yearn upward, touch you close, 

Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. 
Catch your souFs warmth, — I pluck the rose 

And love it more than tongue can speak — 
Then the good minute goes. 

XI. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute } Must I go 
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar. 

Onward, whenever light winds blow. 
Fixed by no friendly star ? 

XII. 

Just when I seemed about to learn ! 

Where is the thread now } Off again ! 
The old trick ! Only I discern — 

Infinite passion, and the pain 
Of finite hearts that yearn. 



1 62 '' De Gustibus—'' 



"DE GUSTIBUS— " 
I. 

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees 

(If our loves remain), 

In an English lane, 
By a cornfield-side a-flutter w^ith poppies. 
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, 

Making love, say, — 

The happier they ! 
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon. 
And let them pass, as they will too soon, 

With the beanfiovver's boon. 

And the blackbird's tune. 

And May, and June ! 

II. 

What I love best in all the world 

Is a castle, precipice-encurled. 

In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 

Or look for me, old fellow of mine 

(If I get my head from out the mouth 

O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, 

And come again to the land of lands), 

In a seaside house to the farther South, 

Where the baked cicala dies of drouth, 

And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands. 

By the many hundred years red-rusted. 

Rough, iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'er-crusted, 

My sentinel to guard the sands 

To the water's ^(\gt. For, what expands 

Before the house, but the great opaque 

Blue breadth of sea without a break ? 

While, in the house, forever crumbles 

Some fragment of the frescoed walls. 

From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 

A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 

Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, 

And says there's news to-day, — the king 

Was shot at, touched in the liver-wnng, 

Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : 

— She hopes they have not caught the felons, 

Italy, my Italy ! 

Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 

(When fortune's malice 

Lost her. Calais) 



The Guardian Angel. 163 



Open my heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, " Italy." 
Such lovers old are I and she : 
So it always was, so shall ever be ! 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

A PICTURE AT FANO. 
I. 

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave 
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me ! 

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
Shall find performed thy special ministry, 

And time come for departure, thou, suspending 

Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, 
Another still to quiet and retrieve, 

II. 

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, 
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze. 

— And suddenly my head is covered o'er 

With those wings, wliite above the child who prays 

Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding 

Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding 

Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. 

III. 
I would not look up thither past thy head 

Because the door opes, like that child, I know, 
For I should have thy gracious face instead, 

Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low 
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together. 
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 

Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread } 

IV. 

If this was ever granted, I would rest 

My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands 

Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast. 

Pressing the brain which too much thought expands, 

Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 

Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, 
And all lay quiet, happy, and suppressed. 



How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired ! 
I think how I should view the earth and skies 



164 Evelyn Hope. 



And sea, when once again my brow was bared 
After thy healing, with such different eyes. 

world, as God has made it ! All is beauty : 
And knowing this is love, and love is duty. 

What further may be sought for or declared } 

VI. 

Guercino drew^ this angel I saw teach 

(Alfred, dear friend !) — that little child to pray, 

Holding the little hands up, each to each 

Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away 

Over the earth where so much lay before him 

Of work to do, though heaven w^as opening o'er him. 
And he was left at Fano by the beach. 

VII. 

We wxre at Fano, and three times we went 
To sit and see him in his chapel there. 

And drink his beauty to our soul's content 
— My angel wnth me too : and since I care 

For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power 

And glory comes this picture for a dower, 
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent), 

VIII. 

And since he did not work thus earnestly 

At all times, and has else endured some wrong- — 

1 took one thought his picture struck from me, 

And spread it out, translating it to song. 
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend ? 
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end } 

This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. 

EVELYN HOPE. 

I. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium flower. 
Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no hght may pass 

Save two long rays through the 'hinge's chink. 

II. 
Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 



Evelyn H'ope. 165 



It was not her time to love ; beside, 
Her life had many a hope and aim, 

Duties enough and Httle cares, 
And now was quiet, now astir, 

Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 
And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

III. 

Is it too late then, Evel>;n Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew — 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? 

IV. 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love : 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

V. 

But the time will come, — at last it will. 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay } 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

VI. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue } let us see ! 



i66 Apparent Failure, 



VII. 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
There, that is our secret ; go to sleep ! 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

MEMORABILIA. 

I. 

Ah ! did you once see Shelley plain, 

And did he stop and speak to you, 
And did you speak to him again ? 

How strange it seems, and new! 

II. 
But you w^ere living before that, 

And also you are living after ; 
And the memory I started at— 

My starting moves your laughter ! 

III. 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt. 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about : 

IV. 

For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 

Well, I forget the rest. 

APPARENT FAILURE. 

" We shall soon lose a celebrated building." 

— Paris Neivspafer, 
I. 

No, for I'll save it ! Seven years since, 
I passed through Paris, stopped a day 

To see the baptism of your Prince ; 

Saw, made my bow% and went my way : 

Walking the heat and headache off, 
I took the Seine-side, you surmise. 



Apparent Failure. 167 



Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, 

CavoLir's appeal and Buol's replies, 
So sauntered till — what met my eyes ? 

II. 

Only the Doric little Morgue ! 

The dead-house where you show your drowned : 
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue, 

Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned. 
One pays one's debt in such a case ; 

I plucked up heart and entered, — stalked, 
Keeping a tolerable face 

Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked 
Let them ! No Briton's to be balked ! 

III. 
First came the silent gazers ; next, 

A screen of glass, we're thankful for ; 
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text. 

The three men who did most abhor 
Their life in Paris yesterday. 

So killed themselves : and now, enthroned 
Each on his copper couch, they lay 

Fronting me, waiting to be owned. 
I thought, and think, their sin's atoned. 

IV. 

Poor men, God made, and all for that ! 

The reverence struck me ; o'er each head 
Religiously was hung its hat. 

Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, 
Sacred from touch : each had his berth. 

His bounds, his proper place of rest, 
Who last night tenanted on earth 

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, — 
Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. 

V. 

How did it happen, my poor boy } 

You wanted to be Buonaparte 
And have the Tuileries for toy. 

And could not, so it broke your heart ? 
You, old one by his side, I judge, 

Were, red as blood, a socialist, 
A leveler ! Does the Empire grudge 

You've gained what no Republic missed.^ 
Be quiet, and unclinch your fist ! 



1 68 Prospice. 



VI. 

And this — why, he was red in vain, 

Or black, — poor fellow that is blue ! 
What fancy w^as it, turned your brain? 

Oh, women were the prize for you ! 
Money gets women, cards and dice 

Get money, and ill-luck gets just 
The copper couch and one clear nice ] 

Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, 
The right thing to extinguish lust ! 

VII. 

It's wiser being good than bad ; 

It's safer being meek than fierce : 
It's fitter being sane than mad. 

My own hope is, a sun will pierce 
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched ; 

That, after Last, returns the First, 
Though a wide compass round be fetched; 

That what began best, can't end worst, 
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst. 

PROSPICE. 

Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go : 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 

The best and the last ! 
I Vv^ould hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old. 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end. 



^' Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came^ 169 

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest ! 

CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." 

(See Edgar's song in '' Lear.") 
I. 

My first thought was, he lied in every word. 
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye 
Askance to watch the working of his lie 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored 
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. 

II. 

What else should he be set for, with his staff ? 
What, save to waylay with his lies, insnare 
All travelers who might find him posted there, 
And ask the road ? I guessed what skull-like laugh 
Would break, what crutch gin write my epitaph 
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, 

III. 

If at his counsel I should turn aside 

Into that ominous tract which, all agree. 
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly 

I did turn as he pointed : neither pride 

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried. 

So much as gladness that some end might be. 

IV. 

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, 

WHiat with my search drawn out through years, my 

hope 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 

With that obstreperous joy success would bring, — 

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 
My heart made, finding failure in its scope. 

V. 

As when a sick man very near to death 

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end 
The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, 

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath, 



lyo '' Childe Rolajid to the Dark Towe?^ Came!' 

Freelier outside (" since all is o'er," he saith, 
** And the blow fallen no grieving can amend") ; 

VI. 

While some discuss if near the other graves 
Be room enough for this, and when a day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 
With care about the banners, scarves, and staves: 
And still the man hears all, and only craves 
He may not shame such tender love and stay. 

VII. 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ 
So many times among ** The Band" — to wit. 
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 
Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed best, 
And all the doubt was now — should I be fit ? 

VIII. 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, 
That hateful cripple, out of his highway^ 
Into the path he pointed. All the day 
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. 

IX. 

For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found 
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view 

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round ; 

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. 
I might go on : naught else remained to do. 

X. 

So, on I went. I think I never saw 

Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing throve: 
For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove ! 
But cockle, spurge, according to their law 
Might propagate their kind, with none to aw^e, 
You'd think ; a burr had been a treasure trove. 

XI. 

No ! penury, inertness, and grimace. 

In some strange sort, were the land's portion. " See 
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, 

" It nothing skills : I cannot help my case : 



*^ Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Carney 171 

'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, 
Calcuie its clods and set my prisoners free." 

XII. 

If there pushed any ragged thistlestalk 

Above its mates, the head was chopped ; the bents 
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents 
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk 
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk 
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. 

XIII. 

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair 
In leprosy : thin dry blades pricked the mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. 

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, 

Stood stupefied, however he came there : 

Thrust out past service from the Devil's stud ! 

xiv. 

Alive } he might be dead for aught I know, 

With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, 
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ; 

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe ; 

I never saw a brute I hated so : 

He must be wicked to deserve such pain. 

XV. 

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 
As a man calls for wine before he fights, 
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, 

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 

Think first, fight afterward — the soldier's art : 
One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 

XVI. 

Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face 

Beneath its garniture of curly gold. 

Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace ! 

Out went my heart's new^ fire and left it cold. 

XVII. 
Giles, then, the soul of honor — there he stands 

Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. 

What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. 
Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! what hangman hands 
Pin to his breast a parchment ? His own bands 

l^ead it. Poor traitor, spit ujdou ancj curst ! 



172 " Childe Roland to the Dark Toiuer Came:' 



XVlli. 
Better this present than a pasilike that ; 

Back therefore to my darkening path again ! 

No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. 
Will the night send a howlet or a bat? 
I asked : when something on the dismal flat 

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. 

XIX. 

A sudden little river crossed my path 

As unexpected as a serpent comes. 

No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms ; 
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the wrath 

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. 

XX. 

So petty yet so spiteful ! All along, 

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it ; 
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : 
The river which had done them all the wrong, 
Whate er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. 

XXI. 

Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I feared 
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek. 
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek 

For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard ! 

— It may have been a water-rat I speared, 
But, ugh ! it sounded like a baby's shriek. 

XXII. 

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. 

Now for a better country. Vain presage ! 

Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage 
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank 
Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned tank, 

Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — 

XXIII. 

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. 

What penned theni there, with all the plain to choose } 
No footprint leading to that horrid mews, 
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work 
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk 
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews, 



^^ Childe Roland to the Da7'k Tower Carney 173 

XXIV. 

And more than tliat — a furlong- on — why, there I 
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, 
Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to reel 

jMen's bodies out like silk ? with all the air 

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, 

Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. 

XXV. 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, 
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth 
Desperate and done with ; (so a fool finds mirth, 
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood 
Changes and off he goes !) within a rood — 

Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. 

XXVI. 

Now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim. 
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like boils ; 

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him 

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
Gaping at death and dies while it recoils. 

XXVII. 

And just as far as ever from the end : 

Naught in the distance but the evening, naught 
To point my footstep farther ! At the thought, 
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend. 
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned 
That brushed my cap — perchance the guide I sought. 

XXVIII. 

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place 
All round to mountains — with such name to grace 

Mere ugly heights and l.eaps now stolen in view. 

How thus they had surprised me, — solve it, you ! 
How to get from them was no clearer case. 

XXIX. 

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick 

Of mischief happened to me, God knows when— 
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, 

Progress this way. When in the very nick 

Of giving up, one time more, came a click 
^As when a trap shuts— you're inside the den, 



174 '^ Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Carney 

XXX. 

Burningly it came on me all at once, 

This was the place ! those two hills on the right, 
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight ; 

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, 

Dotard, a-dozingat the very nonce, 

After a life spent training for the sight ! 

XXXI. 

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself } 

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, 
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart 
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf 
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf 
He strikes on, only when the timbers start. 

XXXII. 

Not see? because of night perhaps? — why, day 
Came back again for that ! before it left. 
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft : 
The hills, like giants at a hunting lay, 
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — 

" Now stab and end the creature — to the heft ! **" 

XXXIII. 

Not hear? when noise was everywhere ! it tolled 
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears 
Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — 

How such a one was strong, and such was bold, 

And such was fortunate, yet each of old 

Lost, lost ! one mom.ent knelled the woe of years. 

XXXIV. 

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met 
To view the last of me, a living frame 
For one more picture ! in a sheet of flame 

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet 

Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, 

And blew *' Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came! 



. A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE. 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 

Singing together. 
JLeave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpej) 

Each in its tether 




Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set. 



176 A Grammarian s Funeral. 

Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain, 

Cared-for till cock-crow : 
Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country ; there, man's thought. 

Rarer, intenser, 
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 

Chafes in the censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop ; 

Seek we sepulture 
On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 

Crowded with culture ! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels : 

Clouds overcome it ; 
No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 
Thither our path lies ; wind we up the heights ! 

Wait ye the warning } 
Our low life was the level's and the night's : 

He's for the morning. 
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 

'Ware the beholders ! 
This is our master, famous, calm, and dead, 

Borne on our shoulders. 

Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft 

Safe from the weather! 
He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing together, 
He was a man born with thy face and throat, 

Lyric Apollo ! 
Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note 

Winter would follow ? 
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone ! 

Cramped and diminished. 
Moaned he, " New measures, other feet anon ! 

My dance is finished } " 
No, that's the world's way ; (keep the mountain side. 

Make for the city !) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 

Over men's pity ; 
Left play for work, and grappled with the world 

Bent on escaping : 
*' What's in the scroll," quoth he, " thou keepest furled ? 

Show me their shaping, 
Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, — 

Give ! " — So, he gowned him, 



A Grammarians Fimeral, 177 

Straight got by heart that book to its last page : 

Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, 

Accents uncertain : 
*' Time to taste life," another would have said, 

" Up with the curtain ! '' 
This man said rather, " Actual life comes next ? 

Patience a moment ! 
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text. 

Still there's the comment. 
Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least, 

Painful or easy ! 
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, 

Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a Hfe as he resolved to live, 

When he had learned it, 
When he had gathered all books had to give ! 

Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the parts — 

Fancy the fabric 
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, 

Ere mortar dab brick ! 

(Here's the tow^n-gate reached ; there's the market-place 

Gaping before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 

(Hearten our chorus !) 
That before living he'd J earn how to live — 

No end to learning : 
Earn the means first — God surely will contiive 

Use for our earning. 
Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes ! 

Live now or never ! " 
He said, " W- hat's time } Leave Now for dogs and apes I 

Man has Forever." 
Back to his book then : deeper drooped his head : 

Calculus racked him : 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead : 

Tussis attacked him. 
" Now, master, take a little rest ! " — not he ! 

(Caution redoubled ! 
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly !) 

Not a whit troubled, 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first, 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 

Sucked at the flagon. 



ijS A Granunariaii s FuneraL 



Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit sure 

Bad is our bargain ! 
Was it not great ? did not he throw on God 

(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly period 

Perfect the earthen ? 
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear 

Just what it all meant ? 
He would not discount life, as fools do here, 

Paid by installment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's success 

Found, or earth's failure : 
**Wilt thou trust death or not ? " He answered, " Yes ! 

Hence with life's pale lure ! " 
That low man seeks a little thing to do, 

Sees it and does it : 
This high man, with a great thing to pursue, 

Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to one, 

His hundred's soon hit : 
This high man, aiming at a million. 

Misses an unit. 
Tliat, has the world here — should he need the next, 

Let the world mind him ! 
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife. 

Ground he at grammar ; 
Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: 

While he could stammer 
He settled Hoti's business — let it be !— 

Properly based Oim— 
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De^ 

Dead from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: 

Hail to your purlieus, 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race, 

Swallows and curlews ! 
Here's the top-peak ; the multitude below 

Live, for they can, there: 
This man decided not to Live but Know — 

Bury this man there .^ 
Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds 
form, 

Lightnings are loosened. 



Cleon, 179 

Stars come and go ! Let joy break with the storm, 

Peace let the dew send ! 
Lofty designs must close in like effects : 

Loftily lying, 
Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects, 

Living and dying. 





'■ \ 



OXE LYRIC WOMAN. 

CLEON. 

" As certain also of your own poets have said — " 

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, 

Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, 

And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps 

*• Greece "), — 
To Protus in his Tyranny : much health ! 

They give thy letter to me, even now : 
I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. 
The master of thy galley still unlades 
Gift after gift ; they block my court at last 
And pile themselves along its portico 
Royal w4th sunset, like a thought of thee ; 
And one white she-slave, from the group dispersed 
Of black and w^hite slaves (like the checker-work 
Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, 
Now covered with this settle-down of doves) 
One lyric w^oman, in her crocus vest 
Woven of sea-wools, with her two w^hite hands 



i3o Clean. 

Commends to me the strainer and the cup 
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. 

Well counseled, king, in thy munificence! 
For so shall men remark, in such an act 
Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, 
Thy recognition of the use of life : 
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate 
To help on life in straight ways, broad enough 
For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. 
Thou, in the daily building of thy tower, — 
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, 
Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, 
Or when the general work, 'mid good acclaim, 
Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect, — 
Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake 
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope 
Of some eventual rest a-top of it. 
Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed. 
Thou first of men mightst look out to the East : 
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. 
For this, I promise on thy festival 
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, 
Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak 
Thy great words, and describe thy royal face — 
Wishing thee wholly v/here Zeus lives the most, 
Within the eventual element of calm. 

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. 
It is as thou hast heard : in one short life 
I, Cleon, have effected all those things 
Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. 
That epos on thy hundred plates of gold 
Is mine, and also mine the little chant 
So sure to rise from every fishing-bark 
When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. 
The image of the sun-god on the phare. 
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine ; 
The Poecile, o'er-storied its whole length, 
As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. 
I know the true proportions of a man 
And woman also, not observed before ; 
And I have written three books on the soul. 
Proving absurd all written hitherto, 
And putting us to ignorance again. 
For music, — why, I have combined the moods. 
Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine ; 
Thus much the people know and recognize, 



Cleon. i8i 

Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not ! 
We of these latter days, with greater mind 
Than our forerunners, since more composite, 
Look not so great, beside their simple way, 
To a judge who only sees one way at once, 
One mind-point and no other at a time, — 
Compares the small part of a man of us 
With some whole man of the heroic age, 
Great in his way — not ours, nor meant for ours. 
And ours is greater, had we skill to know: 
For, what we call this life of men on earth. 
This sequence of the soul's achievements here, 
Being, as I find much reason to conceive, 
Intended to be viewed eventually 
As a great whole, not analyzed to parts. 
But each part having reference to all, — 
How shall a certain part, pronounced complete. 
Endure effacement by another part ? 
Was the thing done ?— then, what's to do again ? 
See, in the checkered pavement opposite. 
Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb. 

And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid— 

He did not overlay them, superimpose 

The new upon the old and blot it out, 

But laid them on a level in his work. 

Making at last a picture ; there it lies. 

So first the perfect separate forms were m.ade, 

The portions of mankind ; and after, so, 

Occurred the combination of the same. 

For where had been a progress, otherwise ? 

Mankind, made up of all the single men,— 

In such a synthesis the labor ends. 

Now mark me ! those divine men of old time 

Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point 

The outside verge that rounds our faculty ; 

And where they readied, who can do more than reach } 

It takes but little water just to touch 

At some one point the inside of a sphere, 

And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest 

In due succession : but the finer air 

Which not so palpably nor obviously, 

Though no less universally, can touch 

The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, 

Fills it more fully than the water did ; 

Holds thrice the weight of water in itself 

Resolved into a subtler element. 

And vet the vulgar call the sphere first full 



lS2 



Cleon. 




The pastured honey-bee. 



Up to the visible heiglit — and after, void ; 

Not knowing air's more hidden properties. 

And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus 

To vindicate his purpose in our life : 

Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? 

Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, 

That he or other god descended here 

And, once for all, showed simultaneously 

What, in its nature, never can be shown 

Piecemeal or in succession ; showed, I say, 

The worth both absolute and relative 

Of all his children from the birth of time, 

His instruments for all appointed work. 

I now go on to image, — might we hear 

The judgment which should give the due to each. 

Show where the labor lay and where the ease, 

And prove Zeus' self, the latent everyv/here ! 

This is a dream : — but no dream, let us hope, 

That years and days, the summers and the springs, 

Follow each other with unwaning powers. 

The grapes wdiich dye thy wine, are richer far 

Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock ; 

The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe ; 

The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet ; 

The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers ; 

That young and tender crescent moon, thy slave, 

Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds, 

Refines upon the women of my youth. 

What, and the soul alone deteriorates ? 

I have not chanted verse like Homer, no — 

Nor swept string like Terpander, no — nor carved 



Clean. 183 

And painted men like Phidias and his friend : 

I am not great as they are, point by point. 

But I have entered into sympathy 

With these four, running these into one soul, 

Who, separate, ignored each other's arts. 

Say, is it nothing that I know them all .^ 

The wild-flower was the larger ; I have dashed 

Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's 

Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, 

And show a better flower if not so large. 

I stand myself. Refer this to the gods 

Whose gift alone it is ! which, shall I dare 

(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext 

That such a gift by chance lay in my hand. 

Discourse of lightly or depreciate.-^ 

It might have fallen to another's hand : what then ? 

I pass too surely : let at least truth stay I 

And next, of what thou followest on to ask. 
This being with me, as I declare, O king ! 
My works in all these varicolored kinds, 
So done by me, accepted so by men — 
Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) 
I must not be accounted to attain 
The very crown and proper end of life } 
Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, 
I face death with success in my right hand : 
Whether I fear death less than dost thyself 
The fortunate of men ? ** For " (writest thou), 
"Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught. 
Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, 
The pictures men shall study ; while my life, 
Complete and whole now in its power and joy. 
Dies altogether with my brain and arm, 
Is lost indeed ; since, what survives myself } 
The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave. 
Set on the promontory which I named. 
And that — some supple courtier of my heir 
Shall use its robed and sceptered arm, perhaps 
To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. 
I go then : triumph thou, who dost not go ! " 

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. 
Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse 
Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief. 
That admiration grows as knowledge grows ? 
That imperfection means perfection hid. 
Reserved in part, to grace the aftertiiiie ? 



<*^4 Clean, 

If in the morning of philosophy, 

Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, 

Thou, with the hght now in thee, couldst have looked 

On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird. 

Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage — 

Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced 

The perfectness of others yet unseen. 

Conceding which, — had Zeus then questioned thee 

" Shall I go on a step, improve on this, 

Do more for visible creatures than is done ? " 

Thou wouldst have answered, *' Ay, by making each 

Grow conscious in himself — by that alone. 

All's perfect else : the shell sucks fast the rock. 

The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims 

And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, 

Till life's mechanics can no farther go — 

And all this joy in natural life, is put. 

Like fire from off thy finger into each, 

So exquisitely perfect is the same. 

But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are : 

It has them, not they it ; and so I choose 

For man, thy last premeditated work 

(If I might add a glory to the scheme) 

That a third thing should stand apart from both, 

A quality arise within his soul. 

Which, intro-active, made to supervise 

And feel the force it has, may view itself, 

And so be happy." Man might live at first 

The animal life : but is there nothing more } 

In due time, let him critically learn 

How he lives ; and, the more he gets to know 

Of his own life's adaptabilities. 

The more joy-giving will his life become. 

Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. 

. But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said : 
" Let progress end at once, — man make no step 
Beyond the natural man, the better beast. 
Using his senses, not the sense of sense ! " 
In man there's failure, only since he left 
The lower and inconscious forms of life. 
We called it an advance, the rendering plain 
Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, 
And, by new lore so added to the old, 
Take each step higher over the brute's head. 
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul. 



Clean, i^S 

Which whole surrounding flats of natural life 
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to ; 
A tower that crowns a country. But alas, 
The soul now climbs it just to perish there ! 
For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream— 
We know this, which we had not else perceived) 
That there's a world of capability 
For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, 
Inviting- us ; and still the soul craves all. 
And still the flesh replies, " Take no jot more 
Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad ! 
Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought 
Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge 
Our bounded physical recipiency, 
Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life. 
Repair the waste of age and sickness : no, 
It skills not ! life's inadequate to joy, 
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. 
They praise a fountain in my garden here 
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow 
Thin from her tube : she smiles to see it rise. 
What if I told her, it is just a thread 
From that great river which the hills shut up, 
And mock her with my leave to take the same? 
The artificer has given her one small tube 
Past power to widen or exchange— what boots 
To know she might spout oceans if she could ? 
She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread : 
And so a man can use but a man's joy 
While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, 
" See, man, how happy I live, and despair— 
That I may be still happier— for thy use ! " 
If this were so, we could not thank our lord, 
As hearts beat on to doing : 'tis not so— 
Malice it is not. Is it carelessness ? 
Still, no. If care— where is the sign ? I ask. 
And get no answer, and agree in sum, 
O king! with thy profound discouragement. 
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. 
Most progress is most failure : thou sayest well. 
The last point now. Thou dost except a case- 
Holding joy not impossible to one 
With artist-gifts— to such a man as I 
Who leave behind me living works indeed ; 
For, such a poem, such a painting lives. 
What ? dost thou verily trip upon a word, 
Confound the accurate view of what joy is 



1 86 CI eon, 

(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 
With feeling joy ? confound the knowing how 
And showing how to live (my faculty) 
With actually living ? — Otherwise 
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? 
Because in my great epos I display 
How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act- 
Is this as though I acted? if I painty 
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young ? 
Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself 
The many years of pain that taught me art ! 
Indeed, to know^ is something, and to prove 
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: 
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is somethmg too. 
Yon rower, with the molded muscles there, 
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 
I can wriie love-odes : thy fair slave's an ode. 
I get to sing of love, when grown too gray 
For being beloved: she turns to that young man. 
The muscles all a-ripple on his back. 
I know^ the joy of kingship : well, thou art king ! 
" But," sayest thou — (and I marvel, I repeat, 
To find thee tripping on a mere word) *' what 
Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die, 
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs. 
And yEschylus, because w^e read his plays ! " 
Why, if they lire still, let them come and take 
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup. 
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive ? 
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, 
In this, that every day my sense of joy 
Grows more acute, my soul (intensified 
By powder and insight) more enlarged, more keen ; 
While every day my hair falls more and more. 
My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase — 
The horror quickening still from year to year, 
The consummation coming past escape. 
When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy — 
When all my works wherein I prove my worth, 
Being present still to mock me in men's mouths. 
Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou, 
I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man. 
The man who loved his life so overmuch, 
Shall sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, 
I dare at times imagine to my need 
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, 
ynlimited in capability 



Ins tans Tyr annus. 187 



For joy, as this is in desire for joy, 
— To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us : 
That, stung by straitness of our Hfe, made strait 
On purpose to make prized the Hfe at large- 
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death. 
We burst there, as the worm into the fly, 
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no ! 
Zeus has not yet revealed it ; and alas, 
He must have done so, were it possible ! 

Live long and happy, and'in that thought die 
Glad for what was ! Farewell. And for the rest, 
I cannot tell thy messenger aright 
Where to deliver what he bears of thine 
To one called Paulus ; we have heard his fame 
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him — 
I know not, nor am troubled much to know. 
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew 
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, 
Hath access to a secret shut from us ? 
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, 
In stooping to inquire of such an one, 
As if his answer could impose at all ! 
He writeth, doth he } well, and he nnay write. 
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars ! certain slaves 
Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ ; 
And (as 1 gathered from a bystander) 
Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. 

INSTANS TYRANNUS. 
I. 

Of the million or two, more or less, 
I rule and possess. 
One man, for some cause undefined, 
Was least to my mind. 

II. 

I struck him, he groveled of course — 

For, what was his force ? 

I pinned him to earth with my weight 

And persistence of hate ; 

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, 

As his lot might be worse. 

III. 

" Were the object less m.ean, would he stand 
At the swing of my hand ! 



iS8 Insians Tyraivius. 



For obscurity helps him. and blots 

The hole where he squats." 

So, I set my five wits on the stretch 

To inveigle the wretch. 

All in vain ! Gold and jewels 1 threw, 

Still he couched there perdue ; 

I tempted his blood and his flesh, 

Hid in roses my mesh, 

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth : 

Still he kept to his filth. 

IV. 

Had he kith now or kin, were access 

To his heart, did I press : 

Just a son or a mother to seize ! 

No such booty as these. 

Were it simply a friend to pursue 

'Mid my million or two, 

Who could pay me, in person or pelf, 

What he owes me himself ! 

No : I could not but smile through my chafe 

For the fellow lay safe 

As his mates do, the midge and the nit, 

— Through minuteness, to wit. 

V. 

Then a humor more great took its place 

At the thought of his face : 

The droop, the low cares of the mouth, 

The trouble uncouth 

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain 

To put out of its pain. 

And, *' no ! " I admonished myself, 

** Is one mocked by an elf, 

Is one baffled by toad or by rat ? 

The gravamen's in that ! 

How the lion, who crouches to suit 

His back to my foot, 

Would admire that I stand in debate ! 

But the small turns the great 

If it vexes you, — that is the thing! 

Toad or rat vex the king } 

Though I waste half my realm to unearth 

Toad or rat, 'tis well worth ! " 

VI. 

So, I soberly laid my last plan 
To extinguish the man. 



An Epistle, 189 



Round his creep-hole, with never a break, 

Ran my fires for his sake ; 

Overhead, did my thunder combine 

With my underground mine : 

Till I looked from my labor content 

To enjoy the event 

VII. 

When sudden . . . how think ye, the end ? 

Did I say " without friend " ? 

Say rather, from marge to blue marge 

The whole sky grew his targe 

With the sun's self for visible boss, 

While an Arm ran across, 

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast, 

Where the wretch was safe prest ! 

Do you see ? Just my vengeance complete, 

The man sprang to his feet. 

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed ! 

— So, / was afraid I 



AN EPISTLE 

CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF 
KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. 

Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, 

The not-incurious in God's handiwork 

(This man's flesh he hath admirably made, 

Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste. 

To coop up and keep down on earth a space 

That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) 

— To Abib, all-sagacious in our art. 

Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, 

Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks 

Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain. 

Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip 

Back and rejoin its source before the term, — 

And aptest in contrivance (under God) 

To baffle it by deftly stopping such : — 

The v^agrant Scholar to his Sage at home 

Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame wnth peace) 

Three samples of true snake-stone — rarer still. 

One of the other sort, the melon-shaped 

(But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs), 

And writeth now the twentv-second time. 



I go An Epistle. 



i\Iy journeyings were brought to Jericho : 
Thus I resume. Who, studious in our art, 
Shall count a little labor unrepaid ? 
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone 
On many a flinty furlong of this land. 
Also, the country-side is all on fire 
With rumors of a marching hitherward. 
Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son. 
A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; 
Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: 
I cried and threw my stafT, and he was gone. 
Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, 
And once a town declared me for a spy; 
But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, 
Since this poor covert where I pass the night. 
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence 
A man w4th 'plague-sores at the third degree 
Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! 
'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, 
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip, 
And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. 
A viscid choler is observable 
In tertians, 1 was nearly bold to say ; 
And falHng-sickness hath a happier cure 
Than our school wots of: there's a spider here 
W^eaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, 
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back ; 
Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, 
The Syrian runagate I trust this to } 
His service payeth me a sublimate 
Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. 
Best wait : I reach Jerusalem at morn, 
There set in order my experiences, 
Gather what most deserves, and give thee all— 
Or I might add, Judsea's gum-tragacanth 
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained. 
Cracks 'twdxt the pestle and the porphyry. 
In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp disease 
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy : 
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar — 
But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. 

Yet stay ! my Syrian blinketh gratefully, 
Protesteth his devotion is my price- 
Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal.? 
I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush. 
What set me off a-writing first of all. 



Aft Epistle, 191 

An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang I 
For, be it this town's barrenness, — or else 
The Man had something in the look of him, — 
His case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. 
So, pardon if — (lest presently I lose, 
In the great press of novelty at hand. 
The care and pains this somehow stole from me) 
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, 
Almost in sight— for wilt thou have the truth ? 
The very man is gone from me but now, 
Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. 
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all ! 

'Tis but a case of mania: subinduced 
By epilepsy, at the turning-point 
Of trance prolonged unduly some three days 
When, by the exhibition of some drug 
Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art 
Unknown to me and which 'twere well to know, 
The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once, 
Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, — 
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, 
Making a clear house of it too suddenly, 
The tirst conceit that entered might inscribe 
W^hatever it was minded on the w^all 
So plainly at that vantage, as it were 
(First come, first served), that nothing subsequent 
Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls 
The just-returned and new-established soul 
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart 
That henceforth she will read or these or none. 
And first— the man's own tirm conviction rests 
That he was dead (in fact they buried him) 
— That he was dead and then restored to life 
By a Nazarene physician of his tribe : 
— 'Sayeth, the same bade " Rise," and he did risCo 
*' Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. 
Not so this figment! — not, that such a fume. 
Instead of giving way to time and health, 
Should eat itself into the life of life 
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all! 
For see, how he takes up the after-life. 
The man — it is one Lazarus a Jew, 
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age. 
The body's habit wholly laudable. 
As much, indeed, beyond the common health 
As he were made and put aside to show. 



192 A 71 Epistle, 

Think, could we penetrate by any drug 

And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, 

And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep ! 

Whence has the man the balm that brightens all ? 

This grown man eyes the world now like a child. 

Some elders of his tribe, I should premise. 

Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep. 

To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, 

Now sharply, now with sorrow, — told the case,- 

He listened not except I spoke to him, 

But folded his two hands and let them talk, 

Watching the flies that buzzed : and yet no fool. 

And that's a sample how his years must go. 

Look if a beggar, in tixed middle-life, 

Should find a treasure, — can he use the same 

With straitened habitude and tastes starved smr.ll, 

And take at once to his impoverished brain 

The sudden element that changes things. 

That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, 

And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? 

Is he not such an one as moves to mirth — 

Warily parsimonious, when no need. 

Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? 

All prudent counsel as to what befits 

The golden mean, is lost on such an one ; 

The man's fantastic will is the man's law. 

So here — we call the treasure knowledge, say, 

Increased beyond the fleshly faculty — 

Heaven open to a soul while yet on earth, 

Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven : 

The man is witless of the size, the sum. 

The value in proportion of all things, " 

Or whether it be little or be much. 

Discourse to him of prodigious armaments 

Assembled to besiege his city now. 

And of the passing of a mule with gourds — 

'Tis one ! Then take it on the other side, 

Speak of some trifling fact, — he will gaze rapt 

With stupor at its very littleness 

(Far as I see), as if in that indeed 

He caught prodigious import, whole results ; 

And so will turn to us the bystanders 

In ever the same stupor (note this point), 

That we, too, see not with his opened eyes. 

Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, 

Preposterously, at cross purposes. 

Should his child sicken unto death,- -whv, look 



An Epistle. 193 



For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, 

Or pretermission of the daily craft I 

While a word, gesture, glance from that same child 

At play or in the school or laid asleep, 

Will startle him to an agony of fear, 

Exasperation, just as like. Demand 

The reason why — '' 'tis but a word," object — 

" A gesture" — he regards thee as our lord 

Who lived there in the pyramid alone, 

Looked at us (dost thou mind ?) when, being young. 

We both would unadvisedly recite 

Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, 

Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst 

All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. 

Thou and the child have each a veil alike 

Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both 

Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match 

Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know ! 

He holds on firmly to some thread of life — 

(It is the life to lead perforcedly) 

Which runs across some vast, distracting orb 

Of glory on either side that meager thrccid, 

Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet — 

The spiritual life around the earthly life : 

The law of that is known to him as this, 

His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. 

So is the man perplext with impulses 

Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on. 

Proclaiming what is right and wrong across. 

And not along, this black thread through the blaze— 

''' It should be" balked by " here it cannot be." 

And oft the man's soul springs into his face 

As if he saw again and heard again 

His sage that bade him " Rise," and he did rise= 

Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within 

Admonishes : then back he sinks at once 

To ashes, who was very fire before, 

In sedulous recurrence to his trade 

Whereby he earneth him the daily bread ; 

And studiously the humbler for that pride, 

Professedly the faultier that he knows 

God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. 

Indeed the especial marking of the man 

Is prone submission to the heavenly will — 

Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 

'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last 

For that same death which must restore his being 



194 ^^^ Epistle. 



To equilibrium, body loosening soul 

Divorced even now by premature full growth : 

He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live 

So long as God please, and just how God please. 

He even seeketh not to please God more 

(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. 

Hence, I perceive not he afiects to preach 

The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, 

Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do : 

How can he'give his neighbor the real ground, 

His own conviction ? Ardent as he is — 

Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 

** Be it as God please" re-assureth him. 

I probed the sore as thy disciple should : 

" How, beast," said I, " this stohd carelessness 

Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march 

To stamp out like a little spark thy town. 

Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once } " 

He merely looked with his large eyes on me. 

The man is apathetic, you deduce? 

Contrariwise, he loves both old and young. 

Able and weak, affects the very brutes 

And birds — how say I ? flowers of the field — 

As a wise workman recognizes tools 

In a master's w^orkshop, loving what they make. 

Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb : 

Only impatient, let him do his best. 

At ignorance and carelessness and sin — 

An indignation which is promptly curbed : 

As when in certain travel I have feigned 

To be an ignoramus in our art 

According to some preconceived design, 

And happened to hear the land's practitioners 

Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 

Prattle fantastically on disease, 

Its cause and cure— and I must hold my peace ! 

Thou wilt object — \Vhy have I not ere this 
Sought out the sage hims'elf, the Nazarene 
Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, 
Conferring with the frankness that befits ? 
Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech 
Perished in a tumult many years ago. 
Accused, — our learning's fate, — of wizardry. 
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 
And creed prodigious as described to me. 
His death, which happened when the earthquake fell 



An Epistle, 19S 



(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss 

To occult learning in our lord the sage 

Who lived there in the pyramid alone), 

Was wrought by the mad people — that's their wont ! 

On vain recourse, as I conjecture it. 

To his tried virtue, for miraculous help — 

How could he stop the earthquake ? That's tlieir way ! 

The other imputations must be lies : 

But take one, though I loath to give it thee. 

In mere respect for any good man's fame. 

(And after all, our patient Lazarus 

Is stark mad ; should we count on what he says ? 

Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech 

Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) 

This man so cured regards the curer, then, 

As— God forgive me ! who but God himself, 

Creator and sustainer of the world. 

That came and dwelt in flesh on it a wliile ! 

— 'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, 

Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, 

Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, 

And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat, 

And must have so avouched himself, in fact, 

In hearing of this very Lazarus 

Who saith — but why all this of what he saith ? 

Why write of trivial matters, things of price 

Calhng at every moment for remark ? 

I noticed on the margin of a pool 

Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, 

Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange ! 

Thy pardon for this long and tedious case. 
Which, now that I review it, needs must seem 
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth ! 
Nor I myself discern in what is writ 
Good cause for the peculiar interest 
And awe indeed this man has touched me with. 
Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness 
Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus : 
I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills 
Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came 
A moon made like a face with certain spots 
Multiform, manifold, and menacing : 
Then a wind rose behind me. So we met 
In this old sleepy town at unaware, 
The man and 1. I send thee what is writ. 
Regard it as a chance, a matter risked 



196 



Caliban upon Setebos. 



To this ambiguous Syrian : he may lose, 

Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 

Jerusalem's repose shall make amends 

For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine ; 

Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell ! 

The very God ! think, Abib ; dost thou think ? 
So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too — 
So, through the thunder comes a human voice 
Saying, " O heart I made, a heart beats here ! 
Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself ! 
Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine : 
But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 
And thou must love me who have died for thee !" 
The madman saith He said so : it is strange. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS ; 

OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND. 

" Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself. 

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best. 
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire. 
With elbows wide, fists clinched to prop his chin. 
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, 
And feels about his spine small eftthings course, 

Run in and out each 




augh 



arm, and 
head a 



With elbows wide, fists clinch kd to 
prop his chix. 



make him 
And while above his 

pompion-plant. 
Coating the cave-top as a brow 

its eye. 
Creeps down to touch and tickle 

hair and beard, 
And now a flower drops with a 

bee inside, 
And now a fruit to snap at, 

catch and crunch, — 
He looks out o'er yon sea which 

sunbeams cross 
And recross till they weave a 

spider-web 
(Meshes of fire, some great fish 

breaks at times), 
And talks to his own self, 

howe'er he please, 
Touching that other, whom his 

dam called God. 



Caliban upon Setebos. 197 



Because to talk about Him, vexes — ha, 
Could He but know ! and time to vex is now. 
When talk is safer than in winter-time. 
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 
In confidence he drudges at their task ; 
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe. 
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] 

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos ! 
'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 

'Thinketh he made it, with the sun to match, 
But not the stars ; the stars came otherwise ; 
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that : 
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon. 
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease : 

He hated that He cannot change His cold. 

Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish 

That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, 

And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine 

O' the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far amid, 

A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave ; 

Only, she ever sickened, found repulse 

At the other kind of water, not her life 

(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun). 

Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, 

And in her old bounds buried her despair, 

Hating and loving warmth alike ; so He. 

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle. 

Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. 

Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech ; 

Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam. 

That floats and feeds : a certain badger brown, 

He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye 

By moonlight ; and the pie with the long tongue 

That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm. 

And says a plain word when she finds her prize. 

But will not eat the ants ; the ants themselves 

That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks 

About their hole — He made all these and more, 

Made all we see, and us, in spite : how else ? 

He could not. Himself, make a second self 

To be His mate : as well have made Himself : 

He would not make what He mislikes or slights. 

An eyesore to Him, or not w^orth His pains ; 



1 9 8 Caliban upon Setebos. 

But did, in envy, listlessness, or sport, 

Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be — 

Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, 

Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, 

Things He admires and mocks too, — that is it. 

Because, so brave, so better though they be, 

It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 

Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash. 

Add hone3-comb and pods, I have perceived. 

Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, — 

Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, 

Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain 

Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme. 

And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 

Put case, unable to be what I wish, 

I yet could make a live bird out of clay : 

Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban 

Able to fly ? — for, there, see, he hath wings. 

And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire. 

And there, a sting to do his foes offense. 

There, and I will that he begin to live. 

Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns 

Of grigs high up that make the merry din 

Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. 

In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, 

And he lay stupid-like, — why, I should laugh ; 

And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, 

Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong. 

Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, — 

Well, as the chance were, this might take or else 

Not take my fancy : I might hear his cry. 

And give the manikin three legs for one, 

Or pluck the other off, leave him like an tgg, 

And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. 

Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, 

Drinkino^ the mash, with brain become alive. 

Making and marring clay at will } So He. 

'Thinketh, such shows nor rioht nor wrons: in Him, 
Nor kind, nor cruel : He is strong and Lord. 
'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 
That march now from the mountain to the sea ; 
'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first. 
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 
'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots 
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off ; 
'Say, This bruised fellow shall receive a worm. 



Caliba?i upon Setebos. 199 

And two worms he whose nippers end in red 
As it hkes me each time, I do : So He. 

Well then, 'siipposeth He is good i' the main, 

Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, 

But rougher than His handiwork, be sure ! 

Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, 

And envieth that, so helped, such things do more 

Than He who made them ! What consoles but this ? 

That they, unless through Him, do naught at all, 

And must submit : what other use in things? 

'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint 

That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay 

When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue : 

Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 

Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt : 

Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth 

" I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, 

I make the cry my maker cannot make 

With his great round mouth ; he must blow through minel" 

Would not I smash it with my foot ? So He. 

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? 
Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for that, 
What knows, — the something over Setebos 
That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, 
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. 
There may be something quiet o'er His head. 
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, 
Since both derive from weakness in some way. 
I joy because the quails come ; would not joy 
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind : 
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch. 
But never spends much thought nor care that way. 
It may look up, work up, — the worse for those 
It works on ! 'Careth but for Setebos 
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish. 
Who, making Himself feared through what He does, 
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar 
To what is quiet and hath happy life; 
Next looks down here, and out of very spite 
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real. 
These good things to match those, as hips do grapes. 
'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. 
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 
Careless and loftv, lord now of the isle : 



200 Caliban ut>on Setebos, 



\» 



Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped. 

Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words ; 

Has peeled a wand and called it by a name ; 

Weareth at whiles for an enclianter's robe 

The eyed skin of a supple ocelot ; 

And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, 

A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, 

Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, 

And saith she is Miranda and my wife ; 

'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane 

He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge ; 

Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, 

BUnded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, 

And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge 

In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban ; 

A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 

'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, 

Taketh his mirth with make-believes : so He. 

His dam held that the Quiet made all things 

Which Setebos vexed only : 'holds not so. 

Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. 

Had He meant other, while His hand was in, 

Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, 

Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, 

Or overscale my fiesh 'neath joint and joint, 

Like an ore's armor? Ay, — so spoil His sport ! 

He is the One now : only He doth all. 

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. 

Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why } 

'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast 

Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, 

But, had he eyes, would want no help, would hate 

Or love, just as it liked him : He hath eyes. 

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, 

Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, 

By no means for the love of what is worked. 

'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world 

When all goes right, in this safe summer time, 

And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, 

Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 

'Falls to make something : 'piled yon pile of turfs, 

And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, 

And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each. 

And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, 

And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, 

Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. 



Caliban upon Setehos. 



20I 



No 



for 



SIX 



me, 




Prosper at his books. 



use at all i' the work, 
work's sole sake ; 
'Shall some day knock it down 
again : so He. 

'Saith He is terrible : watch His 
feats in proof ! 

One hurricane will spoil 
good months' hope. 

He hath a spite against 
that I know, 

Just as He favors Prosper, who 
knows why ? 

So it is, all the same, as well I find. 

'Wove wattles half the winter, 
fenced them firm 

With stone and stake to stop 
she-tortoises 

Crawling to lay their eggs here : 
well, one wave, 
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, 
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue. 
And licked the whole labor fiat : so much for spite. 
'Saw a ball fiame down late (yonder it lies) 
Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade : 
Often they scatter sparkles : there is force ! 
'Dug up a newt He may have envied once 
And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone 
Please Him and hinder this ? — WMiat Prosper does? 
Aha, if he would tell me how ! Not He ! 
There is the sport : discover how or die ! 
All need not die, for of the things o' the isle 
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees ; 
Those at His mercy, — why, they please Him most 
When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice ! 
Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. 
You must not know His ways, and play Him oiT, 
Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself : 
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears 
But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, 
And when I threat, bites stoutly in defense : 
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, 
Curls up into a ball, pretending death 
For fright at my approach : the two ways please. 
But what would move my choler more than this, 
That either creature counted on its life 
To-morrow and next day and all days to come, 



Caliban upon Setebos. 



Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart, 

'* Because he did so yesterday with nne, 

And otherwise with such another brute, 

So must he do henceforth and ahvays." — Ay? 

'Would teach the reasoning couple what ** must " means 

'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord ? So He. 

'Conceiveth all tilings will continue thus, 

And we shall have to live in fear of Him 

So long as He lives, keeps His strength : no change, 

If He have done His best, make no new world 

To please Him more, so leave off watching this, — 

If He surprise not even the Quiet's self 

Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow into it 

As grubs grow butterflies : else, here are w^e, 

And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. 
His dam held different, that after death 
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends : 
Idly! He doth His worst in this our life. 
Giving just respite lest we die through pain. 
Saving last pain for worst, — with which, an end. 
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire 
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees himself. 
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, 
Bask on the pompion-bell above : kills both. 
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 
On head and tail as if to save their lives : 
Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. 

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose 

This Caliban strives hard and ails no less. 

And always, above all else, envies Him : 

Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights. 

Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh. 

And never speaks his mind save housed as now : 

Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, 

O'erheard this speech, and asked, " What chucklest at } ** 

'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, 

Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best. 

Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, 

Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste : 

While myself lit a fire, and made a song 

And sung it, ** What I hate, deconsecrate 

To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate 

For Thee ; what see for envy in poor 7ne ? " 



SauL 203 

Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, 
Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime. 
That some strange day, \vill either the Quiet catch 
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He 
Decrepit n:iay doze, doze, as good as die. 



[What, what ? A curtain o'er the world at once ! 

Crickets stop hissing; not a bird— or, yes, 

There scuds His raven that hath told Him all ! 

It was fool's play, this prattling ! Ha ! The wind 

Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, 

And fast invading fires begin I White blaze — 

A tree's head snaps — and there, there, there, there, there, 

His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe at Him ! 

Lo I 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos ! 

'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, 

Will let those quails fly, wnll not eat this month 

One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape !] 

SAUL. 



Said Abner, ''At last thou art come I Ere I tell, ere thou 

speak, 
Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I wished it, and did kiss 

his cheek. 
And he, " Since the King, O my friend ! for thy countenance 

sent, 
Neither drunken nor eaten have w^e ; nor until from his tent 
Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, 
Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. 
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, 
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of 

praise, 
To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife. 
And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon 

life. 

II. 

" Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved ! God's child with his 

dew 
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue 
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild 

heat 
Were now raging to torture the desert I " 



204 



Saul. 



III. 

Then I, as was meet, 
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, 
And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was un- 

looped ; 
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ; 
Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and 

gone, 
That extends to the second inclosure, I groped my way on 



>.j^i^ 





Then I tuxed mv hakp. 



Till I felt where the foldskirts tiy open. Then once more I 

prayed. 
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid 
But spoke, " Here is David, thy servant ! " And no voice repliech 
At the first I saw naught but the blackness ; but soon I de- 
scried 
A something more black than the blackness — the vast, the 

upright 
Main prop whicli sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight 
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. 
Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul. 

IV. 

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide 
On the great cross-support in the center, that goes to each side ; 



Said. 205 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs 
And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, 
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come 
With the springtime,— so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind 
and dumb. 

V. 

Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its 

chords 
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide — those sun- 
beams like swords ! 
And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, 
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. 
They are white, and untorii by the bushes, for lo, they have fed 
Where the long grasses stifle the water wdthin the stream's bed ; 
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 
Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far ! 

VI. 

— Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each 

leave his mate 
To fly after the player ; then, what makes the crickets elate 
Till for boldness they fight one another : and then, what has 

weight 
To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house — 
There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half 

mouse ! 
God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, 
To give sign, w^e and they are his children, one family here. 

vn. 
Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, 

when hand 
Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great 

hearts expand 
And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — And then, the 

last song 
When the dead man is praised on his journey — " Bear, bear 

him along 
With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! Are balm 

seeds not here 
To console us ? The land has none left such as he on the bier. 
Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! " — And then, 

the glad chant 
Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, next, she whom 

we vaunt 
As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And then, the great 

march 



2o6 Saul. 

Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch 
Nought can break : who shall harm them, our friends ?— Then, 

the chorus intoned 
As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. 
But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. 

VIII. 
And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened 

apart ; 
And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered : and sparkles 

'gan dart 
From the jewels that woke in 'his turban at once with a start 
All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. 
So the head : but the body still moved not, still hung there 

erect. 
And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, 

As I sang, — 

IX. 

" Oh, our manhood's prime vigor ! No spirit feels waste, 
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. 
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock. 
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver 

shock 
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, 
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. 
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust 

divine, r n i i r 

And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught ot 

wine. 
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell 
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. 
How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ 
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! 
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou 

didst guard 
When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious re- 
ward ? 
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men 

sung 
The low song of the nearly departed, and hear her famt tongue 
Joining in while it could to the witness, ' Let one more attest, 
I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was 

for best ! ' 
Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not 

much, but the rest. 
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence 

grew 



SauL ^07 

Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained 
true : 

And the friends of tliy boyhood — that boyhood of wonder and 
hope, 

Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's 
scope, — 

Till lo, thou are grown to a monarch ; a people is thine; 

And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head com- 
bine ! 

On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like 
the tliroe 

That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go) 

High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning 
them, — all 

Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — King Saul ! " 

X. 

And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, hand, harp, and 

voice, 
Each lifting wSaul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice 
Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as when, dare I say, 
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its 

array. 
And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — *' Saul ! " cried I, and 

stopped. 
And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung 

propped 
By the tent's cross-support in the center, was struck by his 

name. 
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to 

the aim. 
And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he 

alone. 
While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad 

bust of stone 
A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,— leaves grasp of 

the sheet } 
Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his 

feet. 
And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain 

of old. 
With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold — 
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and 

scar 
Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there 

they are ! 
— Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest 



:^o8 SaiiL 

Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his 

crest 
For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder 

thrilled 
All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled 
At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. 
What was gone, what remained ? All to traverse 'twixt hope 

and despair. 
Death was past, life not come : so he waited. A while his 

right hand 
Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, forthwith to 

remand 
To their place what new objects should enter : 'twas Saul as 

before. 
I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more 
Than by slow^ pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the 

shore, 
At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean —a sun's slow decline 
Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and intwme 
Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so,-arm folded 

arm 
O'er the chest whose slow^ heavings subsided. 

XI. 

What spell or what charm 
(For, a while there was trouble within me), what next should I 

uro'e 
To sustam him where song had restored him ?— Song filled 

to the verge 
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields 
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what 

fields, 
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye 
And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they 

putbv? . ,.f 

He saith," It is good "; still he drinks not : he lets me praise hte, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 

XII. 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the 

sheep 
Fed in silence— above, the one eagle wheeled slow as m sleep ; 
And I lay in mv hollow and mused on the world that might he 
'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and 

the sky. . 

And I laughed— "Since my days are ordained to be passed with 

mv flocks, 



SauL 200 

Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the 

rocks, 
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show 
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! 
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that 

gains. 
And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now 

these old trains 
Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more 

the string 
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 

XIII. 

*' Yea, my King," 
I began—" thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring 
From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by 

brute : 
In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears 

fruit. 
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,— how its stem 

trembled first 
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler ; then safely out- 
burst 
The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindest when these too, 

in turn 
Broke a-bloomand the palm-tree seemed perfect : yet more was 

to learn. 
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates 

shall we slight, 
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the 

plight 
Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them } Not 

so ! stem and branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine 

shall stanch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such 

wine. 
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! 
By the spirit when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt 

enjoy 
More indeed, than at first when, inconscious, the life of a 

boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! Each deed thou 

hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world : until e'en as the sun 
Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though 
tempests efface, 



216 Saul 

Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere 

trace 
The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each ray of thy 

will, 
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill 
Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give 

forth 
A like cheer to their sons : who in turn, fill the South and the 

North 
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the 

past ! 
But the license of age has its limit : thou diest at last. 
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, 
So with man — so his power and his beauty forever take flight, 
No ! Again a long draught of my soul-wine ! Look forth 

o'er the years ! 
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the 

seer's 
Is Saul dead ? In the depth of the vale make his tomb, — bid 

arise 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the 

skies, 
Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose fame 

would ye know ? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go 
In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such was Saul, so 

he did ; 
With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, — 
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there ! Which fault 

to amend, 
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall 

spend 
(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record 
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the statesman's 

great word 
Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's 

a -wave 
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other wiien prophet- 
winds rave : 
So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part 
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou 

art ! " 

XIV. 

And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who didst grant 

me, that day. 
And, before it, not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, 



SauL 2 1 1 

Carry on and complete an adventure, — my shield and my 

sword 
In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy w^ord was my 

word, — 
Still be with me, w^ho then at the summit of human endeavor 
And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless 

as ever 
On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, mighty to save, 
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — God's throne 

from man's grave ! 
Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart 
Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I 

took part. 
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my 

sheep ! 
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep, 
For I w^ake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves 
The dawn struggling wdth night on his shoulder, and Kidron 

retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 

XV. 

I say then, — my song 
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more 

strong, 
Made a proffer of good to console him — he slowly resumed 
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand re- 
plumed 
His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the 

swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his countenance 

bathes. 
He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of 

yore, 
And feels slow^ for the armlets of price, with the clasp set 

before. 
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent 
The broad brow^ from the daily communion ; and still, though 

much spent 
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did 

choose. 
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite 

lose. 
So sank he along by the tent-prop, still, stayed by the pile 
Of his armor and w^ar-cloak and garments, he leaned there 

a while, 
And sat out my singing — one arm round the tent-prop, to raise 



2 1 i Saul. 

His bent head, and the other hung slack— till I touched on the 

praise 
I foresaw from all nien in all time, to the man patient there ; 
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 

'ware 
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees 
Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots 

which please 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know 
If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but 

slow 
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care 
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : through 

my hair 
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with 

kind power — 
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. 
Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized 

mine — 
And oh, all my heart how it loved him I but where was the 

sign ? ' 
I yearned — " Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, 
I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this ; 
I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence 
As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart to dis- 



pense ! 



XVI, 



Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song more! 
outbroke — 

XVII. 

'' I have gone the whole round of creation : I saw and I spoke ; 

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my 
brain 

And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — returned him 
again 

His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw. 

I report, as a man may of God's work — all's love, yet all's law. 

Now 1 lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty 
tasked 

To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was 
asked. 

Have I knowledge ? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid 
bare. 

Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite- 
Care ! 

Do 1 task any faculty highest to image success ? 



Said, 1L\1 

I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less, 
In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. 
And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul w^hich in bending upraises it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God s all-complete, 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. 
Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. 
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, 
I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think), 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst 
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could love if I durst ! 
But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake. 
— What, my soul .^ see thus far and no farther.^ when doors 

great and small, 
Nine and ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth 

appall .^ 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all } 
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, 
That I doubt his own love can compete with it .-* Here the 

parts shift } 
Here, the creature surpass the creator, — the end, what began } 
Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can } 
Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less 

power, 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvelous dower 
Of the life he w^as gifted and filled with } to make such a soul. 
Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole .^ 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) 
These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the 

best ? 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height 
This perfection, — succeed, with life's dayspring, death's minute 

of night } 
Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, 
Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him awake 
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set 
Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new harmony yet 
To be run and continued, and ended — who knows ? — or endure ! 
The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make 

sure ; 
By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss. 
And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in 

this. 



^14 Saul. 

XVIII. 
" I believe it ! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive : 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. 
All's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my 

prayer, 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. 
From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread 

Sabaoth : 
/ ^viii ?-_the mere atoms despise me ! Why am I not loth 
To look that, even that in the face too ? Why is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my 

despair ? 
This ;— 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what 

man Would do ! 
See the King— I would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall 

through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, 
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would— knowing which, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now ! 
Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst thou— so wilt 

thou ! 
So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown— 
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down 
One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, 
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death ! 
As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved 
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved ! 
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand 

the most weak. 
Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for I my flesh, that I 

seek 
In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be 
A Face like mv face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 
Thou shalt love and be loved bv, forever : a Hand like this hand 
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the Christ 

stand ! " 

XIX. 

I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. 
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, 
Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware : 
I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, 
As a runner beset by the populace famished for news — 
Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed 

with her crews ; 
And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot 
Out in fire the strong paint of pent knowledge : but I fainted not, 



Rabbi Ben Ezra. 215 



For the Hand still impelled meat once and supported, sup- 
pressed 
All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, 
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. 
Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth- 
Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth ; 
In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills ; 
In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the sudden wind- 
thrills ; 
In the startled wild beasts that bore oft, each with eye sidhng 

still 
Though averted with wonder and dread ; m the bn\ls stiff and 



""chi] 



That rose heavily as I approached them, made stupid with awe : 
E'en the serpent' that slid away silent— he felt the new law. 
The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the 

flowers ; 
The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine- 
bowers : 
And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low. 
With their obstinate, all but hushed voices—" E'en so, it is so ! " 

RABBI BEN EZRA. 



Grow old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be, 

The last of li'fe, for which the first was made : 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, '' A whole I planned, 
Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be 
afraid ! " 

II. 
Not that, amassing flowers, 
Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best recall ! " 
Not that, admiring stars. 
It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor jMars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends 
them all ! " 

III. 
Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years. 
Do I remonstrat^^e : folly wide the mark ! 
Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without, 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark, 



2i6 Rabbi Ben Ezra. 



IV. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and tind and feast. 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men : 

Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw 
crammed beast ? 

V. 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive! 

A spark disturbs our clod : 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe, 

VI. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the 
throe ! 

VII. 

For thence, — a paradox 
Which comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
What I aspired to be, 
And was not, comforts me : 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the 
scale. 

VIII. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh hath soul to suit. 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? 

To man, propose this test — 

Thy body at its best. 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way } 

IX. 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 

I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every turn : 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 



Rabbi Ben Ezra. 2 1 7 



Brain treasured up the whole ; 

Should not the heart beat once " How good to live and 
learn ? " 

X. 

Not once beat '* Praise be thine ! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too. 

Perfect I call thy plan : 

Thanks that I was a man ! 

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou shalt do ! " 

XI. 

For pleasant is this flesh ; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best ! 

XII. 

Let us not always say, 
** Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole ! " 
As the bird w-ings and sings, 
Let us cry *' All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh 
helps soul ! " 

XIII. 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage, 

Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute ; a God though in the germ. 

XIV. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new^ : 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next, 

What weapons to select, what armor to indue. 

XV. 
Youth ended, I shall try 
My gain or loss thereby ; 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 



2 1 8 Rabbi Ben Ezra. 



And I shall weigh the same, 
Give life its praise or blame : 
Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. 

XVI. 

For, note when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — " Add this to the rest. 

Take it and try its worth ; here dies another day." 

XVII, 

So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife. 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

" This rage was right i' the main, 

That acquiescence vain : 

The Future 1 may face now I have proved the Past." 

XVIII. 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 

Here, w^ork enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

XIX. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made : 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death, nor be afraid ! 

XX. 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

XXI. 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 



Rabbi Be?i Ezra. 219 



Was I, the world arraigned, 

Were they, my soul disdained, 

Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! 

XXII. 

Now, who shall arbitrate ? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me : we all surmise. 

They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall my soul believe? 

XXIII. 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called *'work," must sentence pass. 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; 

O'er which, from level stand. 

The low world laid its hand. 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : 

XXIV. 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb. 
So passed in making up the main account : 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure. 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's 
amount: 

XXV. 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped : 

All I could never be. 

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 

XXVI. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— 
Thou, to whom fools propound. 
When the wine makes its round, 

** Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize to- 
day!'* 

XXVII. 

Fool ! All that is, at all. 
Lasts ever, past recall ; 



2 20 Rabbi Ben Ezra, 



Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : 
What entered into thee, 
That was, is, and shall be : 

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay 
endure. 

XXVIII. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance. 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 

Try thee, and turn thee forth sufficiently impressed. 

XXIX. 

What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim, 

Skull-things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress } 

XXX. 

Look not thou down but up ! 
To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal, 
The new wine's foaming flow, 
The Master's lips aglow ! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with 
earth's wheel ? 

XXXI. 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who m oldest men ! 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 

Did I, — to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colors rife. 

Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst : 

XXXII. 

So, take and use Thy work, 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 

My times be in Thy hand ! 

Perfect the cup as planned ! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same ! 



Epilogue, 



221 



EPILOGUE. 



A 



First Speaker, as ^1"'' 
David. 



On the first of the Feast of Feasts, 

The Dedication Day, 
When the Levites joined the priests 

At the akar in robed array, 
Gave signal to sound and say, — 



II. 



When the thousands, rear and van, 
Swarming with one accord. 

Became as a single man 

(Look, gesture, thought, and word), 

In praising and thanking the Lord, — 




III. 



And the trumpets made 
endeavor. 



When the singers lift up their voice, 
And the trumpets made endeavor, 

Sounding, " In God rejoice ! " 

Saying, *' In Him rejoice 
Whose mercy endureth forever ! " 

IV. 

Then the Temple filled with a cloud, 

Even the House of the Lord ; 
Porch bent and pillar bowed : 

For the presence of the Lord, 
In the glory of His cloud. 

Had filled the House of the Lord. 

Second Speaker, as Renan, 

Gone now ! All gone across the dark so far. 

Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, 
Dwindling into the distance, dies that star 

Which came, stood, opened once ! We gazed our fill 
With upturned faces on as real a Face 

That, stooping from grave music and mild fire, 
Took in our homage, made a visible place 

Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre. 
For the dim human tribute. Was this true ? 

Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his. 
To help by rapture God's own rapture too, 

Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss ? 
Why did it end } Who failed to beat the breast, 



2 2 2 Epilogue. 



And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide, 
When a first shadow showed the star addressed 

Itself to motion, and on either side 
The rims contracted as the rays retired ; 

The music, hke a fountain's sickening pulse, 
Subsided on itself ; a while transpired 

Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, 
No prayers retard ; then even this was gone, 

Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left 
Silent through centuries, ever and anon 

Venture to probe again the vault bereft 
Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist 

Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say — 
And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst. 

But where may hide what came and loved our clay? 
How shall the sage detect in yon expanse 

The star which chose to stoop and stay for us ? 
Unroll the records ! Hailed ye such advance 

Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus ? 
Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred ? 

We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen, 
Speak, and be sure that we again are heard, 

Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene 
Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame. 

Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb, 
Its core had never crimsoned all the same, 

Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb ? 
Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post, 

Sad sway of scepter whose mere touch appalls. 
Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most 

On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls ! 

Third Speaker. 

I. 

Witless alike of wull and way divine, 

How heaven's high with earth's low should interwine ! 

Friends, I have seen through your eyes : now use mine ! 

II. 
Take the least man of all mankind, as I ; 
Look at his head and heart, find how and why 
He differs from his fellows utterly : 

III. 
Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees 
Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas 
(They said of old) the instinctive water flees 



Epilogue, 



As IN Arctic seas. 



223 




IV. 



Toward some elected point of central rock, 
As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock 
Of waves about the waste : a while they mock 



With radiance caught for the occasion, — hues 
Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues 
As only heaven could fitly interfuse, — • 



VL 



The mimic monarch of the whirpool, king 
O' the current for a minute : then they wring 
Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, 



VII. 



And hasten off, to play again elsewhere 
The same part, choose another peak as bare, 
They find and flatter, feast and finish there. 



VIII. 
When you see what I tell you, — nature dance 
About each man of us, retire, advance. 
As though the pageant's end were to enhance 

IX. 

His worth, and — once the life, his product, gained — 

Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained. 

And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned,— 

X. 

When you acknowledge that one world could do 
All the diverse work, old yet ever new. 
Divide us, each from other, me from you, — 



224 



A Wall, 



XI. 



Why ! Where's the need of Temple, when the walls 
O' the world are that ? What use of swells and falls 
From Levites' choir, priests' cries, and trumpet-calls? 



XII. 



That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, 
Or decomposes but to recompose, 
Become my universe that feels and knows ! 




Who tripped behind. 



A WALL. 
I. 
Oh the old wall here ! How I could pass 

Life in a long midsummer day, 
My feet confined to a plot of grass, 
My eyes from a wall not once away ! 

II. 

And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe 
Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green 



Apparitions. 225 



Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, 
In lappets of tangle they laugh between. 

III. 

Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe ? 

Why tremble the sprays 1 What life o'erbrims 
The body.— the house, no eye can probe, — 

Divined as, beneath a robe, the hmbs ? 

IV. 

And there again I But my heart may guess 
Who tripped behind ; and she sang perhaps : 

So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess 
Died out and away in the leafy wraps. 

V. 

Wall upon wall are between us : life 

And song should away from heart to heart ! 

I — prison-bird, with a ruddy strife 

At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start — 

VI. 

Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing 

That's spirit : though cloistered fast, soar free ; 

Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring 

Of the rueful neighbors, and— forth to thee ! 



APPARITIONS. 

I. 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Till, that May-morn, 
Blue ran the flash across : 

Violets were born ! 

II. 

Sky — what a scowl of cloud 

Till near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 

III. 

World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 
Till God's own smile came out 

That was thy face ! 



2 26 Garden Fancies. 



NATURAL MAGIC. 

I. 

All I can say is — I saw it ! 

The room was as bare as your hand. 

I locked in the swarth Httle lady, — I swear, 

From the head to the foot of her — well, quite as bare ! 

" No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, " taking my stand 

At this bolt which I draw ! " And this bolt — I withdraw it, 

And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered 

With — who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erfiowered ? 

Impossible ! Only — 1 saw it ! 

II. 

All I can sing is — I feel it ! 

This life was as blank as that room ; 

I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed ? 

Walls, ceiling, and floor, — not a chance for a weed ! 

Wide opens the entrance : where's cold now, where's gloom } 

No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it. 

Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing. 

These fruits of your bearing — nay, birds of your winging! 

A fairy-tale ! Only— I feel it ! 

MAGICAL NATURE. 

I. 
Flower — I never fancied, jewel— I profess you ! 

Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower. 
Save but glow inside and — jewel, I should guess you, 

Dim to sight and rough to touch : the glory is the dower, 

II. 

You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel — 
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! 

Time may fray the flower-face : kind be time or cruel. 
Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time! 

GARDEN FANCIES. 

I. THE flower's name. 
I. 

Here's the garden she walked across, 
Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! 



Garden Fancies. 227 



She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 
As back with that murmur the wicket swung; 

For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned. 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

II. 
Down this side of the gravel-walk 

She went while her robe's ^()^^^ brushed the box: 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will ne\er think that she passed you by! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie ! 

III. 
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a name ! Was it love, or praise ? 

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? 
I must learn Spanish, one of these days, 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

IV. 

Roses, — if I live and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days. 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. 
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground, 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

V. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 

Stay as you are and be loved forever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow^ not. 

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! 
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle. 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle; 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

VI. 
Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 
Whither I follow^ her, beauties flee : 



2 28 Garden Fancies. 




For she lingers. 

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me ? 

Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, 
Treasures my lady's lightest footfall ! 

— Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — 
Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFx\ABURGENSIS. 
I. 

Plague take all your pedants, say I ! 

He who wrote what I hold in my hand. 
Centuries back was so good as to die, 

Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land ; 
This, that was a book in its time. 

Printed on paper and bound in leather, 
Last month in the white of a matin-prime 

Just when the birds sang all together, 

II. 

Into the garden I brought it to read. 
And under the arbute and laurustine 



Garden Fancied, 229 



Read it, so help me grace in my need, 

From title-page to closing line. 
Chapter on chapter did I count, 

As a curious traveler counts Stonehenge ; 
Added up the mortal amount, 

And then proceeded to my revenge. 

III. 

Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice 

An owl would build in, were he but sage ; 
For a lap of moss, like a fine pont levis 

In a castle of the middle age, 
Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber ; 

When he'd be private, there might he spend 
Hours alone in his lady's chamber: 

Into this crevice I dropped our friend. 

IV. 

Splash, went he, as under he ducked, 

— At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate; 
Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked 

To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; 
Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, 

Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; 
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf 

Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. 

V. 

Now, this morning, betwixt the moss 

And gum that locked our friend in limbo, 
A spider had spun his web across, 

And sat in the midst with arms akimbo : 
So, I took pity, for learning's sake, 

And, de proftindis, acceiitibtcs Ice t is, 
Cant ate ! quoth I, as I got a rake ; 

And up I fished his delectable treatise. 

VI. 

Here you have it, dry in the sun, 

With all the binding all of a blister, 
And great blue spots where the ink has run. 

And reddish streaks that wink and glister 
O'er the page so beautifully yellow : 

Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks ! 
Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? 

Here's one stuck in his chapter six ! 



230 In Three Days. 



VII. 

How did he like it wlien the Hve creatures 

Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, 
And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, 

Came in, each one, for his right of trover? 
— When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face 

Made of her eggs the stately deposit, 
And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface 

As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet ? 

VIIT. 

All that life and fun and romping. 

All that frisking and twisting and coupling, 
While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping. 

And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling ! 
As if you had carried sour John Knox 

To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, or jMunich, 
Fastened him into a front-row box. 

And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. 

IX. 

Come, old martyr ! What, torment enough is it ? 

Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. 
Good-by, mother-beetle; husband-eft, Sufficit ! 

See the snug niche I have made on my shelf ! 
A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, 

Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay. 
And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, 

Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment day ! 

IN THREE DAYS. 

I. 

So, I shall see her in three days 
And just one night, but nights are shorty 
Then two long hours, and that is morn. 
See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! 
Feel, where my life broke off from thinCp 
How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — 
Only a touch, and we combine ! 

II. 

Too long, this time of year, the days ! 
But nights, at least the nights are short, 
As night shows where her one moon is, 
A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, 
So life's night gives my lady birth 



The Lost Mistress. 2 3 1 



And my eyes hold her ! What is worth 
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? 

III. 

O loaded curls ! release your store 
Of warmth and scent, as once before 
The tingling hair did, lights and darks 
Outbreaking into fairy sparks, 
When under curl and curl I pried 
After the w^armth and scent inside, 
Through lights and darks how manifold — 
The dark inspired, the light controlled, 
As early Art embrowns the gold ! 

IV. 

What great fear, should one say, " Three days, 

That change the world, might change as well 

Your fortune ; and if joy delays, 

Be happy that no worse befell ! " 

What small fear, if another says, 

*' Three days and one short night beside 

May throw no shadow on your ways ; 

But years must teem vs'ith change untried, 

With chance not easily defied, 

With an end somewhere undescried." 

No fear ! — or, if a fear be born 

This minute, fear dies out in scorn. 

Fear } I shall see her in three days 

And one night, now the nights are short, 

Then just two hours, and that is morn ! 

THE LOST MISTRESS. 

I. 
All's over, then : does truth sound bitter 

As one at first believes } 
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter 

About the cottage eaves ! 

II. 

And the leaf buds on the vine are woolly, 

I noticed that to-day ; 
One day more bursts them open fully : 

You know the red turns gray. 

III. 
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? 
May I take your hand in mine } 



232 



One Way of Love. 



Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest 
Keep much that I resign. 

IV. 

Each glance of the eye so bright and black, 
Though I keep with heart's endeavor, — 

Your voice, when you wish the snowdro])s back, 
Though it stay in my soul forever, — 

V. 

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, 

Or only a thought stronger ; 
I will hold your hand but as long as all may. 

Or so very little longer ! 




Rose by rose. 



ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
I. 

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. 

Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 

And strew them where Pauline may pass. 

She will not turn aside? Alas ! 

Let them lie. Suppose they die } 

The chance was they might take her eye. 

n. 
How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 



Kttilfl to tlw Lady of Tripoli, 233 

To-day I venture all T know. 
Slie will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string ; fold music's wing ; 
Siii)j)ose Paulinr h.id hade me sinj^- ! 

III. 
My whole hlr loM^i 1 learned to love. 
This hour my utmost art I prove 
And speak my |)assion — heaven or hell ? 
She will not give me heaven .^ "lis well ! 
Lose who may — ^1 still can say, 
Those who win heaven, blest are tliey! 



kijI)1<:l to riik: lady oi- ikiroLi. 
I. 
1 KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun ixMceives 
First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves 
The woild ; and, vainly Livored, it repays / 

The (kiy-long ^lory of his steadfast gaze 
liy no change of its large calm front of snow. 
And, underneath the Mount, a Flower 1 know, 
He cannot have perceived, that changes ever 
At his a|)proach ; and, in the lost endeavor 
To live his life, has parted, one by one. 
With all a llower's true graces for the grace 
Of being but a foolish mimic sun. 
With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. 
Men nobly call by many a name the Mount 
As over many a kuad of theirs its large 
Caln^ front of snow like a triumphal targe 
Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, 
Each to its proper praise and own account : 
Men call the Flower tlie Sunllower, sportively. 



II. 
O Angel of tli(^ I^ast ! one, one gold look 
Acioss the waters to this twilight nook, 
— The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook ! 

III. 
Dear Pilgrim, art thou for ihe East indeed? 
Go !— saying ever as thou dost proceed, 
That I, French Rudel, choose for my device 
A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice 
liefore its idol. See ! These inexpert 
And hurried hngers could not fail to hurt 



234 



Nil tiipholeptos. 



The woven picture ; 'tis a woman's skill 

Indeed ; but nothing baffled ine, so, ill 

Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed 

On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees 

On my flower's breast, as on a platform broad : 

But, as the flower's concern is not for these 

But solely for the sun, so men applaud 

In vain this Rudel, he not looking here 

But to the East — the East ! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear ! 



NUMPHOLEPTOS. 




Still you listek. 



Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile ! 
Still melts your moonbeam through me, white a while, 
Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft 
Increase so round this heart of mine that oft 
I could believe your moonbeam smile has past 



Numpholeptos. 235 



The pallid limit and, transformed at last, 
Lies, sunlight and salvation — warms the soul 
It sweetens, softens ! Would you pass that goal, 
Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge, 
And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge 
The hesitating pallor on to prime 

Of dawn ! — true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action- 
time, 
By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow 
Of gold above my clay — I scarce should know 
From gold's self, thus suffused ! For gold means love. 
What means the sad slow silver smile above 
My clay but pity, pardon ? — at the best. 
But acquiescence that I take my rest. 
Contented to be clay, while in your heaven 
The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven 
Companioning God's throne they lamp before, 
— Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er 
By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon 
Which smiles me slow forgiveness ! Such, the boon 
I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this — just this 
Supreme endeavor ! As my lips now kiss 
Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe, 
My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe 
Your eyes above for — what, if born, would blind 
Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find 
The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb, 
Bid with life's ecstasy sense overbrim 
And suck back death in the resurging joy — 
So grant me — love, whole, sole, without alloy ! 

Vainly ! The promise withers ! I employ 

Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word, 

Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, 

And none the more is changed your calm regard : 

Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh and hard — 

Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. 

Avert the rest ! I rise, see ! — make, again 

Once more, the old departure for some track 

Untried yet through a world which brings me back 

Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet. 

To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet 

Which smile there — take from his new pilgrimage 

Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage 

With love — not placid pardon now — his thirst 

For a mere drop from out the ocean erst 

He drank at ! Well, the quest shall be renewed, 



2^6 Numpholeptos. 



Fear nothing-! Though I Hnger, unimbued 
With any drop, my Hps thus close. I go ! 
So did 1 leave you, I have found you so, 
And doubtlessly, if fated to return, 
So shall my pleading persevere and earn 
Pardon — not love — in that same smile, I learn, 
And lose the meaning of, to learn once more, 
Vainly ! 

What fairy track do I explore ? 
What magic hall return to, like the gem 
Centuply-angied o'er a diadem ? 

You dwell there, hearted ; from your midmost home 
Rays forth — through that fantastic world I roam 
Ever — from center to circumference. 
Shaft upon colored shaft : this crimsons thence, 
That purples out its precinct through the waste. 
Surely I had your sanction when I faced,' 
Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray 
Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day 
Where they began, before your feet, beneath 
Your eyes, your smile : the blade is shut in sheath, 
Fire quenched in flint ; irradiation, late ' 
Triumphant through the distance, finds its fate, 
]\Ierged in your blank pure soul, alike the source 
And tomb of that prismatic glow : divorce 
Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared. 
Treading the lambeiU flamelet : little cared 
If now its flickering took the topaz tint, 
If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint 
Of subterranean rage — no stay nor stint 
To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe. 
Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe 
In yellow license. Here I reek suffused 
With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used 
With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow 
Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show 
Scarce recognition, no approval, some 
Mistrust, more wonder at a man become 
Monstrous in garb, nay — flesh disguised as well. 
Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell, 
I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein 
You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain 
Earth's somber stretch beyond your midmost place 
Of vantage, — trode that tinct whereof the trace 
On garb and flesh repel you ! Yes, I plead 
Your own permission— your command, indeed, 



Numpholeptos. 237 

That who would worthily retain the love 

Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, 

Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds 

O' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds 

Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge 

That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge 

Plainer his foot its pathway all distinct 

From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked 

With fear, as exploration manifests 

What agency it was first tipped the crests 

Of unnamed wild-flower, soon protruding grew 

Portentous mid the sands, as when his hue 

Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through ; 

Till, last . . . but why parade more shame and pain ? 

Are not the proofs upon me ? Here again 

I pass into your presence, I receive 

Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave . . . 

No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, 

Submitted to my penance, so my foot 

May yet again adventure, tread, from source 

To issue, one more ray of rays which course 

Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere 

Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear 

Dark of the world, — you promise shall return 

Your pilgrim jeweled as with drops o' the urn 

The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all 

Of ghastliness at ^(\g^. of some cloud-pall 

Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall 

O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word 

Tries the adventure : and returns — absurd . 

As frightful — in that sulphur-steeped disguise 

Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize 

The arch-heretic was wont to bear away 

Until he reached the burning. No, I say : 

No fresh adventure ! No more seeking love 

At end of toil, and finding, calm above 

My passion, the old statuesque regard. 

The sad petrific smile ! 

O you — less hard 
And hateful than mistaken and obtuse 
Unreason of a she-intelligence ! 
You very woman with the pert pretense 
To match the male achievement ! Like enough ! 
Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough 
Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff 
Grind down and grow a whisper,— did man's truth 



238 The Worst of It, 



Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, 

Its rapier edge to suit the buh*ush-spear 

Womanly falsehood fights with T O that ear 

All fact pricks rudely, that thrice superfine 

Femininity of sense, with right divine 

To waive all process, take result stain-free 

From out the very muck wherein . . . 

Ah me ! 
The true slave's querulous outbreak ! All the rest 
Be resiofnation ! Forth at vour behest 
I fare. Who knows but this — the crimson-quest — 
May deepen to a sunrise, not decay 
To that cold sad sweet smile ? — which I obey. 

APPEARANCES. 
I. 

And so you found that poor room dull, 
Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear } 

Its features seemed unbeautiful : 

But this I know — 'twas there, not here, 

You plighted troth to me, the word 

Which — ask that poor room how it heard ! 

II. 
And this rich room obtains your praise 

Unqualified, — so bright, so fair, 
So all whereat perfection stays } 

Ay, but remember — here, not there, 
The other word was spoken ! Ask 
This rich room how you dropped the mask ! 

THE WORST OF IT. 

I. 

Would it were I had been false, not you ! 

I that am nothing", not you that are all : 
I, never the worse for a touch or two 

On my speckled hide ; not you, the pride 
Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall 

On her wonder of white must unswan, undo ! 

II. 

I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again, 
Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see, 

When I found my swan and the cure was plain ; 
The dull turned bright as I caught your white 



The Worst of It, 239 



On my bosom : you saved me — saved in vain 
If you ruined yourself, and all through me ! 

III. 
Yes, all through the speckled beast I am, 

Who taught you to stoop ; you gave me yourself, 
And bound your soul by the vows which damn : 
Since on better thought you break, as you 
ought, 
Vows— words, no angel set down, some elf 
Mistook, — for an oath, an epigram ! 

IV. 
Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart. 

And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased ! 
I choose to be yours, for my proper part. 

Yours, leave me or take, or mar or make ; 
If I acquiesce, why should you be teased 

With the conscience-prick and the memory smart ? 

V. 
But what will God say ? O my Sweet, 

Think, and be sorry you did this thing ! 
Though earth were unworthy to fesl your feet, 

Tliere's a heaven above may deserve your love; 
Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring 

And a promise broke, were it just or meet } 

VI. 

And I to have tempted y-ou ! I, who tried 
Your soul, no doubt, till it sank ! Unwise, 

I loved and was lowly, loved and aspired, 

Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, 

And you meant to have hated and despised — 
Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired ! 

VII. 
She, ruined ? How ? No heaven for her ? 

Crowns to give, and none for the brow 
That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh ? 

Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne, 
And she go graceless, she graced now 

Beyond all saints, as themselves aver ? 

VIII. 

Hardly ! That must be understood ! 

The earth is your place of penance, then ; 
And what will it prove ? I desire your good, 

But, plot as I ma}-, I can ^\W(\ no way 



240 The Worst of It, 



How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, 
Nor prove too much for your womanhood. 

IX. 

It will come, I suspect, at the end of life, 
When you walk alone, and review the past; 

And I, who so long shall have done with strife, 
And journeyed my stage and earned my wage 

And retired as was right, — I am called at last 
When the Devil stabs you, to lend the knife* 

X. 

He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong, 

Nor the other hours are able to save, 
The happy, that lasted my whole life long : 

F'or a promise broke, not for first words spoke, 
The true, the only, that turn my grave 

To a blaze of joy and a crash of song. 

XI. 

Witness beforehand ! Off I trip^ 

On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung; 
My very name made great by your lip 

And my heart aglow with the good I know 
Of a perfect year when we both were young, 

And I tasted the angels' fellowship. 

XII. 

And witness, moreover . . . Ah, but wait ! 

I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots ! 
It may be for yourself, when you meditate. 

That you grieve — for slain truth, murdered truth: 
*' Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots .'^ 

How trutli would have triumphed ! " — you sigh 
too late. 

XIII. 

Ay, who would have triumphed like you I say ! 

Well, it is lost now ; well, you must bear. 
Abide and grow fit for a better day. 

You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge ! 
But hush ! For you, can be no despair : 

There's amends : 'tis a secret ; hope and pray ! 

XIV. 

For I was true at least — oh, true enough ! 

And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems! 
Commend me to conscience ! Idle stuff ! 

Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine, 



The Worst of it. 



241 



And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams 
At my swan's obtainhig the crow's rebuff. 

XV. 

Men tell me of truth now — " False ! " I cry : 
df beauty — " A mask, friend ! Look beneath ! ' 

We take our own method, the Devil and I, 
With pleasant and fair and wise and rare : 

And the best we wish to what lives, is — death ; 
Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie ! 

XVI. 

Far better commit a fault and have done — 
As you, Dear ! — forever : and choose the pure, 

And look where the healing waters run, 
And strive and strain to be good again. 

And a place in the other world insure, 
All glass and gold, with God for its sun. 

XVII. 

Misery ! What shall I say or do ? 

I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade. 
Most like, you are glad you deceived me— rue 
No whit of the wrong : you endured too long, 
Have done no evil and want no aid, 

Will live the old life out and chance the 
new. 

XVIII. 

And your sentence is written all the same. 
And I can do nothing, — pray, perhaps : 
But somehow the w^orld pursues its game, — 
If I pray, if I curse,— for better or 
worse : 
And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps, 
And my heart feels ice while my words 
breathe flame. 

XIX. 

Dear, I look from my hiding-place. 

Are you still so fair ? Have you still the 
eyes ? 
Be happy ! Add but the other grace, 

Be good ! Why want what the angels 
vaunt ? 
I knew^ you once; but in Paradise, 

If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face. 




Are you still so fair? 



2 4^ Too Late. 



TOO LATE. 
I. 

Here was I with my arm and heart 

And brain, all yours for a word, a want 
Put into a look — just a look, your part, — 

While mine, to repay it . . . vainest vaunt, 
Were the w^oman, that's dead, alive to hear, 

Had her lover, that's lost, love's proof to show! 
But I cannot show it ; you cannot speak 

From the churchyard neither, miles removed, 
Though I feel by a pulse within my cheek, 

Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved 
Needs help in her grave and finds none near. 

Wants warmth from the heart which sends it — so ! 

II. 

Did I speak once angrily, all the drear days 

You lived, you woman I loved so well, 
Who married the other ? Blame or praise. 

Where was the use then ? Time would tell, 
And the end declare what man for you. 

What woman for me was the choice of God. 
But, Edith dead ! no doubting more ! 

I used to sit and look at my life 
As it rippled and ran till, right before, 

A great stone stopped it : oh, the strife 
Of waves at the stone some devil threw 

In my life's midcurrent, thwarting God ! 

III. 

But either I thought, ** They may churn and chide 

A while, — my waves which came for their joy 
And found this horrible stone full-tide : 

Yet I see just a thread escape, deploy 
Through the evening country, silent and safe. 

And it suffers no more till it finds the sea." 
Or else I would think, " Perhaps some night 

When new things happen, a meteor-ball 
May slip through the sky in a line of light, 

And earth breathe hard, and landmarks fall, 
And my waves no longer champ nor chafe, 

Since a stone will have rolled from its place : let be ! 

IV. 

But, dead ! All's done with : wait who may, 
Watch and wear and wonder who will. 



Too Late. ^43 



Oh, my whole life that ends to-day ! 

Oh, my soul's sentence, sounding- still, 
" The woman is dead, that was none of his ; 

And the man, that was none of hers, may go ! " 
There's only the past left : worry that ! 

Wreak, like a bull, on the empty coat, 
Rage, its late wearer is laughing at ! 

Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat ; 
Strike stupidly on^" This, this," and this. 

Where I would that a bosom received the blow ! " 

V. 

I ought to have done more : once my speech 

And once your answer, and there, the end, 
And Edith was henceforth out of reach ! 

Why, men do more to deserve a friend. 
Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise, 

Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in the face, 
W^hy, better even have burst like a thief 

And borne you away to a rock for us two. 
In a moment's horror, bright, bloody, and brief, 

Then changed to myself again — ** I slew 
Myself in that moment; a ruffian lies 

Somewhere : your slave, see, born in his place ! " 

VI. 
What did the other do ? You be judge ! 

Look at us, Edith ! Here are we both ! 
Give him his six whole years : I grudge 

None of the life with you, nay, I loathe 
Myself that I grudged his start in advance 

Of me who could overtake and pass. 
But, as if he loved you ! No, not he, 

Nor anyone else in the world, 'tis plain : 
Who ever heard that another, free 

As I, young, prosperous, sound, and sane. 
Poured life out, proffered it — '* Half a glance 

Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass ! " 

VIT. 
Handsome, w^ere you ? 'Tis more than they held, 

More than they said ; I was 'ware and watched : 
I was the 'scapegrace, this rat belled 

The cat, this fool got his whiskers scratched : 
The others ? No head that was turned, no heart 

Broken, my lady, assure yourself ! 
Each soon made his mind up ; so and so 

Married a dancer, such and such 



^44 ^00 Late. 



Stole his friend's wife, stasrnated slow, 
Or maundered, unable to do as much, 

And muttered of peace where he had no part : 
While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf, — 

VIII. 

On the whole, you were let alone, I think ! 

So, you looked to the other, who acquiesced ; 
My rival, the proud man, — prize your pink 

Of poets ! A poet he was ! I've guessed : 
He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read, 

Loved you and doved you — did not I laugh ! 
There was a prize ! But we both were tried. 

heart of mine, marked broad with her mark, 
Tekel, found wanting, set aside, 

Scorned ! See, I bleed these tears in the dark 
Till comfort come and the last be bled : 
He ? He is tagging your epitaph. 

IX. 

If it would only come over again ! 

— Time to be patient with me, and probe 
This heart till you punctured the proper vein, 

Just to learn what blood is : twitch the robe 
From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped, 

Prick the leathern heart till the — verses spirt ! 
And late it was easy ; late, you walked 

Where a friend might meet you ; Edith's name 
Arose to one's lip if one laughed or talked ; 

If I heard good news, you heard the same ; 
When I woke, I knew that your breath escaped ; 

1 could bide my time, keep alive, alert. 

X. 

And alive I shall keep and long, you will see! 

I knew a man, was kicked like a dog 
From gutter to cesspool ; what cared he 

So long as he picked from the filth his prog ? 
He saw youth, beauty, and genius die, 

And jollily lived to his hundredth year. 
But I will live otherwise : none of such life ! 

At once I begin as I mean to end. 
Go on with the world, get gold in its strife, 

Give your spouse the slip, and betray your friend ! 
There are two who decline, a woman and I, 

And enjoy our death in the darkness here. 



Bifurcation, 245 



XI. 

I liked that way you had with your curls 

Wound to a ball in a net behind : 
Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker-girl's, 

And your mouth — there was never, to my mind, 
Such a funny mouth, for it would not shut ; 

And the dented chin too — what a chin ! 
There were certain ways when you spoke, some words 

That you know you never could pronounce : 
You were thin, however; like a bird's 

Your hand seemed — some would say, the pounce 
Of a scaly-footed hawk — all but ! 

The world was right when it called you thin. 

XII. 

But I turn my back on the world : I take 

Your hand, and kneel, and lay to my lips. 
Bid me live, Edith ! Let me slake 

Thirst at your presence ! Fear no slips ! 
'Tis your slave shall pay, while his soul endures, 

Full due, love's w^hole debt, sinmnuui jus. 
My queen shall have high observance, planned 

Courtship made perfect, no least line 
Crossed without warrant. There you stand. 

Warm too, and white too : would this wine 
Had washed all over that body of yours, 

Ere I drank it, and you down with it, thus ! 



BIFURCATION. 

We were two lovers ; let me lie by her. 

My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe — 

** I loved him ; but my reason bade prefer 

Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe 

Of rose and lily when each path diverged, 

And either I must pace to life's far end 

As love should lead me, or, as duty urged. 

Plod the warm causeway arm in arm with friend. 

So, truth turned falsehood : * How I loathe a flower, 

How prize the pavement ! ' still caressed his ear — 

The deafish friend's — through life's day, hour by hour. 

As he laughed (coughing) ' Ay, it would appear ! ' 

But deep within my heart of hearts there hid 

Ever the confidence, amends for all, 

That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did 

When love from life-long exile comes at call. 



246 A Likeness, 



Duty and love, one broadway, were the best — 
Who doubts ? But one or other was to choose. 
I chose the darkhng- half, and w^ait the rest 
In that new w^orld where light and darkness fuse.'* 

Inscribe on mine — " I loved her : love's track lay 
O'er sand and pebble, as all travelers know. 
Duty led through a smiling country, gay 
With greensward where the rose and lily blow. 

* Our roads are diverse : farewell, lov^e ! ' said she : 

* 'Tis duty I abide by : homely sward 

And not the rock-rough picturesque for me ! 

Above, where both roads join, I wait reward. 

Be you as constant to the path whereon 

I leave you planted ! ' But man needs must move, 

Keep moving — whither, when the star is gone 

Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love ? 

No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block 

But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, 

There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock : 

Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried, * All's well ! 

Duty be min'e to tread in that high sphere 

Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust, 

And two halves make that whole, whereof — since here 

One must suffice a man — why, this one must ! ' 

Inscribe each tomb thus : then, some sage acquaint 
The simple — which holds sinner, which holds saint ! 

A LIKENESS. 

Some people hangportraits up 

In a room where they dine or sup : 

And the wife clinks tea-things under, 

And her cousin, he stirs his cup, 

Asks, ** Who W'as the lady, I w^onder } " — 

" 'Tis a daub John bought at a sale," 

Quoth the wife, — looks black as thunder. 

•* What a shade beneath her nose ! 

Snuff-taking, I suppose," — 

Adds the cousin, wdiile John's corns ail. 

Or else, there's no wife in the case. 

But the portrait's queen of the place,^ 

Alone mid the other spoils 

Of youth, — masks, gloves, and foils, 

And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine, 

And the long whip, the tandem-lasher, 

And the cast from a fist (" not, alas ! mine, 



A Likeness. 



247 




The wife clinks tea-things. 

But my master's, the Tipton Slasher") 

And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace, 

And a satin shoe used for a cigar-case, 

And the chamois-horns ("shot in the Chablais") 

And prints— Rarey drumming on Cruiser, 

And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser. 

And the httle edition of Rabelais: 

Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets 

May saunter up close to examine it, 

And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, 

*' But the eyes are half out of their sockets ; 

That hair's not so bad, where the gloss is. 

But they've made the girl's nose a proboscis : 

Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy! ^^ 

What, is not she Jane ? Then, who is she ? " 

All that I own is a print, 
An etching, a mezzotint ; 
'Tis a study, a fancy, a fiction. 
Yet a fact (take my conviction). 
Because it has more than a hint 
Of a certain face, I never 
Saw elsewhere touch or trace of 
In women I've seen the face of: 
Just an etching, and, so far, clever, 



248 May and Death . 



I keep my prints an imbroglio, 

Fifty in one portfolio. 

When somebody tries my claret, 

We turn round chairs to the fire, 

Chirp over days in a garret, 

Chuckle o'er increase of salary, 

Taste the good fruits of our leisure, 

Talk about pencil and lyre. 

And the National Portrait Gallery : 

Then I exhibit my treasure. 

After we've turned over twenty, 

And the debt of wonder my crony owes 

Is paid to my Marc Antonios, 

He stops me — ''Festiiia lente ! 

What's that sweet thing there, the etching?" 

How^ my waistcoat strings want stretching, 

How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes, 

How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache.' 

" By the bye, you must take, for a keepsake. 
That other, you praised, of Volpato's." 
The fool ! would he try a flight farther and say — 
He never saw, nev^er before to-day, 
Wiiat was able to take his breath away, 
A face to lose youth fo>*, to occupy age 
With the dream of, meet death with, — why, I'll not engage 
But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage, 
I should toss him the thing's self — ** 'Tis only a du- 
plicate, 
A thing of no value ! Take it, I supplicate ! " 

MAY AND DEATH. 
I. 

I WISH that when you died last May, 
Charles, there had died along with you 

Three parts of spring's delightful things ; 
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too. 

II. 

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps ! 

There must be many. a pair of friends 
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm 

Moon-births and the long evening-ends, 

III. 
So, for their sake, be May still May ! 
Let their new time, as mine of old, 



A Forgiveness, 249 



Do all it did for me : I bid 

Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. 

IV. 

Only, one little sight, one plant, 

Woods have in May, that starts up green 

Save a sole streak which, so to speak. 

Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between, — 

V. 

That, they might spare ; a certain wood 

Might miss the plant ; their loss were small : 

But I, — whene'er the leaf grows there, 
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. 

A FORGIVENESS. 

I AM indeed the personage you know. 
As for my wife, — what happened long ago — 
You have a right to question me, as I 
Am bound to answer. 

(" Son, a fit reply ! " 
The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched 

teeth. 
At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.) 

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place 

I had as still I have. I ran life's race, 

With the whole world to see, as only strains 

His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains 

Of good appall him : happy to excess, — 

Work freely done should balance happiness 

Fully enjoyed ; and, since beneath my roof 

Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof 

I went forth every day, and all day long 

Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song 

Cheers him ! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe 

Of laboring flesh and blood — " She loves me so ! " 

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve 
That work grew play and vanished. ** I deserve 
Haply my heaven an hour before the time ! " 
I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime 
Surprised me passing through the postern gate 
— Not the main entry where the menials wait 
And wonder why the world's affairs allow 
The master sudden leisure. That was how 
I took the private garden-way for once. 



250 A Forgiveness. 



Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce 
Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man. 

My fancies in the natural order ran : 

" A spy, — perhaps a foe in ambuscade, — 

A thief, — more like, a sweetheart of some maid 

Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps." 

" Stand there ! " I bid. 

Whereat my man but wraps 
His face the closelier with uplifted arm 
Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm 
This and that pedestal as, — stretch and stoop, — 
Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group 
Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged 
Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged 
For safety : one step thence, the street, you know ! 

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow. 
Near on admiringly, I breathed again, 
And — back to that last fancy of the train — 
"A danger risked for hope of just a word 
With — which of all my nest may be the bird 
This poacher coverts for her plumage, pray } 
Carmen ? Juana } Carmen seems too gay 
For such adventure, while Juana's grave 
— Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave ! 
He had the eye could single from my brood 
His proper fledgeling ! " 

As I turned, there stood 
In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white. 
Whether one bound had brought her, — at first sight 
Of \vhat she judged the encounter, sure to be 
Next moment, of the venturous man and me, — 
Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey: 
Whether impelled because her death no day 
Could come so absolutely opportune 
As now at joy's height, like a year in June 
Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose; 
Or whether hungry for my hate — who knows } — 
Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste 
Our tingling true relation, hate embraced 
By hate one naked moment : — anyhow 
There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now 
The woman w'ho made heaven within my house, 
Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse 
As well as love — vou are to recollect I 



A Forgiveness. 251 



*• Stay!" she said. '' Keep at least one soul imspecked 

With crime, ihat's spotless hitherto — your own ! 

Kill me who court the blessing-, who alone 

Was, am, and shall be guilty, tirst to last! 

The man lay helpless in the toils I cast 

About him, helpless as the statue there 

Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear 

Away and tread to dust the parasite, 

But do the passive marble no despite ! 

I love him as I hafe you. Kill me ! Strike 

At one blow both infinitudes alike 

Out of existence — hate and love ! Whence love } 

That's safe inside my heart, nor will remove 

For any searching of your steel I think. 

Whence hate } The secret lay on lip, at brink 

Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape, 

At every form wherein your love took shape, 

At each new provocation of your kiss. 

Kill me ! " 

We went in. 

Next day after this 
I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke — 
Easily, after all. 

" The lifted cloak 
W^as screen sufficient : I concern myself 
Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf — 
Whate'er the ignoble kind — may prowl and brave 
Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave 
Detected by my household's vigilance. 
Enough of such ! As for my love-romance — 
I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes 
And wake and wonder how the film could rise 
Which changed for me a barber's basin straight 
Into — Mambrino's helm ? I hesitate 
Nowise to say — God's sacramental cup ! 
Why should I blame the brass wdiich, burnished up, 
Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold } 
To me — a warning I was overbold 
In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked 
Only to die, if I remember, — staked 
His life upon the basin's w^orth, and lost ; 
While I confess torpidity at most 
In here and there a limb ; but, lame and halt, 
Still should I work on, still repair my fault 
Ere I took rest in death, — no fear at all ! 
Now, w^ork — no w^ord before the curtain fall I " 




^~: 1^ 




Kill me 



A Forgiveness. 253 



The " curtain "? That of death on life, I meant * 
My "word " permissible in death's event, 
Would be— truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise. 
Day by day, three years long, there had to rise 
And, night by night, to fall upon our stage — 
Ours, doomed to public play by heritage — 
Another curtain, when the world, perforce 
Our critical assembly, in due course 
Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame 
To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game 
If, suffered to set foot behind our scene. 
The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen, 
Gallant and lady, but a minute since 
Enarming each the other would evince 
No sign of recognition as they took 
His way and her way to whatever nook 
Waited them in the darkness either side 
Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride 
Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit 
Of sympathetic rapture — every whit 
Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, 
— Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see 
But calm and concord: where a speech was due 
There came the speech ; when smiles were wanted too 
Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine, 
Where foreign and domestic cares combine. 
There's audience every day and all day long ; 
But finally the last of the whole throng 
Who linger lets one see his back. For her — 
Why, liberty and liking : I aver. 
Liking and liberty ! For me — I breathed, 
Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed 
Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task 
Of personation till next day bade mask. 
And quietly betook me from that world 
To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled 
In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power. 
Three years I worked, each minute of each hour 
Not claimed by acting : — work I may dispense 
With talk about, since work in evidence. 
Perhaps in history ; who knows or cares ? 

After three years, this way, all unawares. 

Our acting ended. She and I, at close 

Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows 

Of bending male and female loyalty, 

Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high 



254 ^ Forgiveness. 



At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare 
Herald his passage from our palace where 
Such visiting" left glory evermore. 
Again the ascent in pubHc, till at door 
As we two stood by the saloon — now blank 
And disencumbered of its guests — there sank 
A whisper in my ear, so low and yet 
So unmistakable ! 

" I half forget 
The chamber you repair to, and I want 
Occasion for one short word — if you grant 
That grace— within a certain room you called 
Our * Study,' for you wrote there wdiile I scrawled 
Some paper full of faces for my sport. 
That room 1 can remember. Just one short 
Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake ! " 

** Follow me thither ! " I replied. 

We break 
The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp 
I lead the way, leave w^armth and cheer, by damp, 
Blind, disused, serpentining ways afar 
From where the habitable chambers are, — 
Ascend, descend stairs tunneled through the stone, — 
Always in silence, — till I reach the lone 
Chamber sepulchered for my very own 
Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy, 
Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy, 
Proof positive of ownership ; in youth 
I garnered up my gleanings here — uncouth 
But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears ; 
Finally, this became in after-years 
My closet of intrenchment to withstand 
Invasion of the foe on every hand — 
The multifarious herd in bower and hall. 
State-room, — rooms whatsoe'er the style which call 
On masters to be mindful that, before 
Men, they must look like men and something more. 
Here, — when our lord the king's bestowment ceased 
To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced, 
I touched ambition's height, — twas here released 
From glory (always symboled by a chain !) 
No sooner was I privileged to gain 
My secret domicile than glad I flung 
That last toy on the table — gazed where hung 
On hook my father's gift, the arquebuss — 
And asked myself " Shall I envisage thus 



A I^orgiveness, 



The new prize and the old prize, when I reach 
Another year's experience?— own that each 
Equaled advantage — sportsman's — statesman's tc( 1? 
That brought me down an eagle, this — a fool ! " 
Into which room on entry, I set down 
The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown 
Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace. 
Each of us looked the other in the face. 
She spoke. ''Since I could die now^ " . . . 

(To explain 
Why that first struck me, know— not once again 
Since the adventure at the porphyry's t(\gt 
Three years before, which sundered like a wedge 
Her soul from mine, — though daily, smile to smile, 
We stood before the public, — all the while 
Not once had I distinguished in that face 
I paid observance to, the faintest trace 
Of feature more than requisite for eyes 
To do their duty by and recognize : 
So did I force mine to obey my will 
And pry no farther. There exists such skill, — 
Those know who need it. What physician shrinks 
From needful contact with a corpse. He drinks 
No plague so long as thirst for knowledge, — not 
An idler impulse, — prompts inquiry. What, 
And will you disbelieve in power to bid 
Our spirit back to bounds as though we chid 
A child from scrutiny that's just and right 
In manhood ? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight, 
Reported daily she it was — not how 
Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.) 

" Since I could die now of the truth concealed. 

Yet dare not, must not die, — so seems revealed 

The Virgin's mind to me, — for death means peace, 

Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease 

Of life and punishment the truth avowed 

May haply lengthen, — let me push the shroud, 

Away, that steals to mufifle ere is just 

My penance-fire in snow ! I dare — I must 

Live by avowal of the truth — this truth — 

I loved you. Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth 

That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite 

Than all preceding torture, proves me right! 

I loved you yet I lost you ! May I go 

Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know } '" 




556 



A Porgivenes$» 




■how 



I think there never was such 

express ? — 
Horror coquetting with voluptuous- 
ness, 
As in those arms of Eastern work- 
manship — 
Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend 

and rip, 
Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate 

so many ways, 
Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays 
Love still at w^ork with the artificer 
Throughout his quaint devising. Why 

prefer. 
Except for love's sake, that a blade 

should writhe 
And bicker like a fiame ? — now play 

the scythe 
As if some broad neck tempted, — now 

contract 
And needle off into a fineness lacked 
For just that puncture which the heart 

demands ? 
Then, such adornment ! Wherefore 

need our hands 
Inclose not ivory alone, nor gold 
Roughened for use, but jewels ? 
behold ! 
Fancy my favorite — which I seem to grasp 
While I describe the luxury. No asp 
Is diapered more delicate round throat 
Than this below the handle! These denote 
— These mazy lines meandering, to end 
Only in flesh they open — what intend 
They else but water-purlings — pale contrast 
With the life-crimson where they blend at last } 
And mark the handle's dim, pellucid green. 
Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean, 
Into a sort of parrot-bird ! He pecks 
A grape-bunch ; his two eyes are ruby-specks 
Pure from the mine : seem this way, — glassy blank, 
But turn them, — lo the inmost fire, that shrank 
From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim ! 
Why did I choose such toys } Perhaps the game 
Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men 
War-wearied get amusement from that pen 
And paper we grow sick of — statesfolk tired 



Those arms of Eastern 
workmanship. 



Nay, 



A JForgiveness, 25 



Of merely (when such measures are required) 
Deahng out doom to people by three words, 
V signature and seal : we play with swords 
Suggestive of quick process. That is how 
I came to like the toys described you now, 
Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed 
The table, even, while my wife pursued 
Her purpose to its ending. *' Now you know 
This shame, my three years' torture, let me go, — 
Burn to the very ashes ! You — I lost. 
Yet you— I loved ! " 

The thing I pity most 
In men is — action prompted by surprise 
Of anger: men } nay, bulls — whose onset lies 
At instance of the firework and the goad ! 
Once the foe prostrate, — trampling once bestowed,— 
Prompt follows placability, regret. 
Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet 
Betokened strong will ! As no leap of pulse 
Pricked me, that tirst time, so did none convulse 
My veins at this occasion for resolve. 
Had that devolved which did not then devolve 
Upon me, I had done — what now to do 
Was quietly apparent. 

*' Tell me who 
The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase ! '* 

*' No, never ! All was folly in his case, 

All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied." 

" And yet you loved me ? " 

*' Loved you. Double-dyed 
In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave 
Your heart and soul away from me to slave 
At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, 
I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, 
What you rejected could be prized beyond 
Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond 
Look on, a fatal word to." 

" And you still 
Love me ? Do I conjecture well, or ill ? " 

"Conjecture — well, or ill ! I had three years 
To spend in learning you." 

" We both are peers 
In knowledge, therefore : since three years are spent 
Ere thus much of yourself /learn — who went 



258 A Forgive /7 ess. 



Back to the house, that clay, and brought my mind 
To bear upon your action : uncombined 
Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived 
Of every purer particle, survived 
At last in native simple hideousness, 
Utter contemptibility, nor less 
Nor more. Contemptibility— exempt 
How could I, from its proper due— contempt ? 
I have too much despised you to divert 
My life from its set course by help or hurt 
Of vour all-despicable life— perturb 
The calm I work in, by— men's mouths to curb, 
Which at such news were clamorous enough- 
Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff 
With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall 
Blank where a scutcheon hung,— by, worse than all, 
Each day's procession, my paraded life 
Robbed and impoverished through the wantmg wife 

Now that my life (which means— my work) was grown 

Riches mdeed ! Once, just this worth alone 

Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby 

Of good and praise would— how rewardingly !— 

Fall at your feet— a crown 1 hoped to cast 

Before your love, my love should crown at last. 

No love remaining to cast crown before. 

My love stopped work now : but contempt the more 

Impelled me task as ever head and hand, 

Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand 

Rather than taste pure hell in idleness. 

Therefore I kept my memory down by stress 

Of daily work I had no mind to stay 

For the world's w^onder at the wife away. 

Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, 

For I despised you ! But your words retrieve 

Importantly the past. No hate assumed 

The mask of love at any time ! There gloomed 

A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged 

By causes you declare ; but love's self purged 

Away a fancied wrong I did both loves 

—Yours and my own : by no hate's help, it proves, 

Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise 

High by how many a grade ! I did despise— 

I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment 

Replace contempt's ! First step to which ascent — 

Write down your own words I reutter you ! 

' I loved my husband and 1 hated— who 

He was, I took up as my first chance, mere 



Cenciaja, 259 



Miid-ball to fliiig and make love foul with I ' Here 
Lies paper ! " 

" Would my blood for ink suffice? " 

** It may : this minion from a land of spice, 
Silk, feather — every bird of jeweled breast — 
This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest 
Above your heart there." . . . 

" Thus ? " 

• '' It flows, I see. 
Dip there the point and write ! " 

" Dictate to me ! 
Nay, I remember." 

And she wrote the words. 
I read them. Then — " Since love, in you, affords 
License for hate, in me, to quench (I say) 
Contempt — why, hate itself has passed away 
In vengeance — foreign to contempt. Depart 
Peacefully to that death which Eastern art 
Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true ! 
Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you — 
Dead in our chamber ! " 

True as truth the tale. 
She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale 
Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise, 
And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes, 
Now that I used my own. She sleeps as erst 
Beloved, in this your church ; ay, yours ! ' 

Immersed 
In thought so deeply. Father.^ Sad, perhaps? 
For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps 
— Still plain I seem to see ! — about his head 
The idle cloak, — about his heart (instead 
Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude 
My vengeance in the cloister's solitude ? 
Hardly, I think ! As little helped his brow 
The cloak then. Father — as your grate helps now ! 

CENCIAJA. 

Ogni cencio vnol entrare in hiicato, — Italian Proverb. 

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass 

That when your Beatrice seemed — by lapse 

Of many a long month since her sentence fell — 



260 Cenciaja. 



Assured of pardon for the parricide, — 

By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, 

By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope, 

Conniverat Francesco Cenci's guilt, — 

Suddenly all things changed, and Clement grew 

" Stern," as you state, ** nor to be moved nor bent, 

But said these three words coldly, ' She viiist die ; ' 

Subjoining * Pardo7i ? Paolo Santa Croce 

Mm'de7'ed his mother also y ester eve, 

And he is fled : she shall Jiot flee, at least / ' " 

— So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled ? 

Shelley, may I condense verbosity 

That lies before me, into some few words 

Of English, and illustrate your superb 

Achievement by a rescued anecdote, 

No great things, only new and true beside? 

As if some mere familiar of a house 

Should venture to accost the group at gaze 

Before its Titian, famed the wide world through, 

And supplement such pictured masterpiece 

By w^iisper " Searching in the archives here, 

I found the reason of the Lady's fate, 

And how by accident it came to pass 

She wears the halo and displays the palm : 

Who, haply, else had never suffered— no, 

Nor graced our gallery, by consequence." 

Who loved the work would like the little news : 

Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me 

Relating how the penalty was paid 

By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called 

Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise. 

From his complicity in matricide 

With Paolo his own brother, — he whose crime 

And flight induced ** those three words — She must die.'* 

Thus I unroll you then the-manuscript. 

''God's justice " — (of the multiplicity 

Of such communications extant still. 

Recording, each, injustice done by God 

In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, 

Scarce one but leads off to the self-same tune) — 

** God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance. 

Rests never on the track until it reach 

Delinquency. In proof I cite the case 

Of Paolo Santa Croce." ^^ 

j\Iany tmies 

The youngster, — having been importunate 

That Marchesine Costanza, who remained 



Cenciaja. 261 



His widowed mother, should supplant the heir 

Her elder son, and substitute himself 

In sole possession of her faculty, — 

And meeting" just as often with rebuff, — 

Blinded by so exorbitant a lust 

Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, 

Casting about to kill the lady — thus. 

He first, to cover his iniquity, 
Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then 
Authoritative lord, acquainting him 
Their mother was contamination — wrought 
Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House 
By dissoluteness and abandonment 
Of soul and body to impure delight. 
Moreover, since she suffered from disease, 
Those symptoms which her death made manifest 
Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin 
About to bring confusion and disgrace 
Upon the ancient lineage and high fame 
O' the family, when published. Duty-bound, 
He asked his brother — what a son should do } 

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard 
By letter, being absent at his land 
Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more : 
" It must behoove a son, — things haply so, — 
To act as honor prompts a cavalier 
And son, perform his duty to all three, 
Mother and brothers " — here advice broke off. 

By which advice informed and fortified 
As he professed himself — as bound by birth 
To hear God's voice in primogeniture — 
Paolo, who kept his mother company 
In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared 
His whole enormity of enterprise 
And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead : 
Whose death demonstrated her innocence, 
And happened, — by the way, — since Jesus Christ- 
Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years. 
Costanza was of aspect beautiful 
Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age 
Sixty about, to far surpass her peers 
The coetaneous dames, in youth and grace. 

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, 
Foiling thereby the justice of the world : 



262 Cenctaja. 



Not God's however, — God, be sure, knows well 
The way to catch a culprit. Witness here ! 
The present sinner, when he least expects, 
Snug-cornered somewhere i' the BasiHcate, 
Stumbles upon his death by violence. 
A man of blood assaults the man of blood 
And slays him somehow. This was afterward: 
Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, 
And, ending thus, permits we end with him, 
And push forthwith to this important point — 
His matricide fell out, of all the days, 
Precisely when the law-procedure closed 
Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death 
Chargeable on his daughter, sons, and wife. 
" Thus patricide was matched with matricide," 
A poet not inelegantly rhymed : 
Nay, fratricide — those Princes Massimi ! — 
Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope 
That all the likelihood Rome entertained 
Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight, 
And she endured the piteous death. 

Now see 
The sequel, — what effect commandment had 
For strict inquiry into this last case, 
When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great 
His efficacy — nephew to the Pope !) 
W^as bidden crush — ay, though liis very hand 
Got soiled i' the act — crime spawning everywhere ! 
Because, when all endeavor had been used 
To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain — 
" Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence, 
*' Throughout his now deserted domicile ! 
Ransack the palace, roof, and fioor, to find 
If haply any scrap of writing, hid 
In nook or corner, may convict — who knows } — 
Brother Onofrio of intellio^ence 
With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood 
Is but too likely : crime spawns everywhere ! " 

And, every cranny searched accordingly, 
There comes to light — O lynx-eyed Cardinal ! — 
Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, 
The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer. 
The word of counsel that — things proving so, 
Paolo should act the proper knightly part, 
And do as was incumbent on a son, 
A brother — and a man of birth, be sure! 



Cenciaja. 263 



Whereat immediately the officers 
Proceeded to arrest Onofrio — found 
At foot-ball, child's play, unaware of harm, 
Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat 
Monte Giordano ; as he left the house 
He came upon the watch in wait for him 
Set by the Barigel, — was caught and caged. 

News of which capture being, that same hour, 
Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence 
Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, 
To have the process in especial care, 
Be, first to last, not only president 
In person, but inquisitor as well, 
Nor trust the by-work to a substitute : 
Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub 
The floor of Justice, so to speak, — go try 
His best in prison with the criminal; 
Promising, as reward for by-work done 
Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained 
And crime avowed, or such connivency 
With crime as should procure a decent death — 
Himself will humbly beg — which means, procure — 
The Hat and Purple from his relative 
The Pope, and so repay a diligence 
Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, 
Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat. 

Whereupon did my lord the Governor 
So masterfully exercise the task 
Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week 
By week, and month by month, from first to last 
Deserved the prize : now, punctual at his place, 
Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, 
Inquisitor — pressed cushion and scoured plank. 
Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill. 
Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make 

amends ! 
So that observers laughed as, many a day, 
He left home, in July when day is flame. 
Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged 
Into the vault where daylong night is ice, 
There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, 
Examining Onofrio : all the stress 
Of all examination steadily 
Converging into one pin-point, — he pushed 
Tentative now of head and now^ of heart. 
As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut 



264 



Cenciaja, 




This side and that side till the 

kernel sounds, — 
So did he press the sole and 

single point 
— What was the very meaning 

of the phrase 
** Do what beseems an honored 

cavalier " ? 

Which one persistent ques- 
tion-torture, — plied 
Day by day, week by week, and 

month by month. 
Morn, noon, and night, — fa- 
tigued away a mind 
Grown imbecile by darkness, 

solitude. 
And one vivacious memory 

gnawing there 
As when a corpse is coffined 

with a snake : 
— Fatigued Onofrio into what 

might seem 
Admission that perchance his 
judgment groped 
So blindly, feeling for an issue — aught 
With semblance of an issue from the toils 
Cast of a sudden round feet late so free, — 
He possibly might have envisaged, scarce 
Recoiled from— even were the issue death 
— Even her death whose life was death and worse ! 
Always provided that the charge of crime, 
Each jot and tittle of the charge were true. 
In such a sense, belike, he might advise 
His brother to expurgate crime with . . . well. 
With blood, if blood must follow on " the course 
Taken as might beseem a cavalier!' 

Whereupon process ended, and report 
Was made without a minute of delay 
To Clement, who, because of those two crimes 
O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late. 
Must needs impatiently desire result. 

Result obtained, he bade the Governor 
Summon the Congregation and dispatch. 
Summons made, sentence passed accordingly 
— Death by beheading. When his death-decree 



NTO THE VAULT WHERE DAYLONG 
NIGHT IS ICE. 



Cenciaja, 265 



Was intimated to Onofrio, all 

Man could do — that did he to save himself. 

'Twas much, the having" gained for his defense 

The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help 

Of many noble friendly persons fain 

To disengage a man of family, 

So young too, from his grim entanglement. 

But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled 

There must be no diversion of the law. 

Justice is justice, and the magistrate 

Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die. 

So, the Marchese had his head cut off 
In place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge, 
With Rome to see, a concourse infinite ; 
Where magnanimity demonstrating 
Adequate to his birth and breed,— poor boy ! — 
He made the people the accustomed speech, 
Exhorted them to true faith, honest works. 
And special good behavior as regards 
A parent of no matter what the sex, 
Bidding each son take warning from himself. 
Truly it was considered in the boy 
Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap 
So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore 
By such an angler as the Cardinal ! 
Why make confession of his privity 
To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips — 
Or, better, saying, " When I counseled him 
' 2^0 do as might beseem a cavalier,' 
What could I mean but, * Hide our pare7ifs shame 
As Christia7i ought, by aid of Holy Church I 
Bury it in a co7ivent — ay, beneath 
Enough dotation to prevent its ghost 
From troubling earth /' " Mere saying thus, — 'tis 

plain. 
Not only were his life the recompense. 
But he had manifestly proved himself 
True Christian, and in lieu of punishment 
Been praised of all men ! — So the populace. 

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good 
(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) 
And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much, 
A cardinal's equipment, some such word 
As this from mouth to ear went saucily : 
" Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew 
From Santa Croce's veins ! " So joked the world. 



266 Porphyria s Lover, 



I add : Onofrio left one child behind, 
A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace 
Abundantly of soul and body, doomed 
To life the shorter for her father's fate. 
By death of her, the Marquisate returned 
To that Orsini House from whence it came : 
Oriolo having passed as donative 
To Santa Croce from their ancestors. 

And no word more ? By all n^ieans ! Would you know 
The authoritative answer,' when folks urged 
•* What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch, 
Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton ? " 
The answer was—" Hatred implacable, ^^ 
By reason they were rivals in their love." 
The Cardinal's desire was to a dame 
Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride, 
The simpleton must ostentatiously 
Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift, 
Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage ; 
Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand 
To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal 
Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young ; 
Whereon a fury entered him— the tire 
He quenched with what could quench fire only— blood. 
Nay, more: '' there want not who affirm to boot. 
The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, 
Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be 
That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. 
He struck the Cardinal a blow : and then. 
To put a face upon the incident, 
Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court 
r the Cardinal's antechamber. Ixlark and mend, 
Ye vouth, by this example how may greed 
Vainglorious operate in worldly souls! " 

So ends the chronicler, beginning with 
*' God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, 
Rests never till it reach delinquency." 
Ay, or how^ otherwise had come to pass 
That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome ? 

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER. 
I. 
The rain set early in to-night, 

The sullen wind was soon awake, 
It tore the elm-tops down for spite, 



Porphyria s Lover. 



267 



And did its worst to vex the lake, 
I listened with heart fit to break. 



II. 



ight 



When glided in Porphyria ; strai 

She shut the cold out and the storm, 

And kneeled, and made the cheerless 

grate 

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 

Which done, she rose, and from her 

forni 

III. 

W^ithdrew the dripping cloak and 
shawl, 
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied 
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 

And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice re- 
plied, 

IV. 

She put my arm about her waist, ' 
And made her smooth white shoulder 
bare, 

And all her yellow hair displaced, 

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there 
And spread o'er all her yellow hair, — 

V. 
Murmuring how she Io\fd me — she 

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, 
To set its struggling passion free 

From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
And give herself to me fore\er. 

VI. 

But passion sometimes would prevail, 
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain 

A sudden thought of one so pale 
For love of her, and all ia vain : 

So she was come throug^h wind and rain. 




Withdrew the dripping 

CLOAK. 



VII. 



Be sure I looked up at her eyes 
Happy and proud : at last I knew 

Porphyria worshiped me ; surprise 
Alade my heart swell, and still it grew 

While I debated what to do. 



6S Filippo Baldinucci on Burial. 

VIII. 
That moment she was mine, mine fair, 

Perfectly pure and good : 1 found 
A thing- to do, and all her hair 

In one long yellow string I wound 
Three times her little throat around, 

IX. 

And strangled her. No pain felt she ; 

I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
As a shut bud that holds a bee, 

I warily oped her lids: again 
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 

X. 

And I untightened next the tress 

About her neck ; her cheek once more 

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: 
I propped her head up as before. 

Only, this time my shoulder bore 

XI. 

Her head, which droops upon it still : 

The smiling rosy little head. 
So glad it has its utmost will, 

That all it scorned at once is fled, 
And I, its love, am gained instead ! 

XII. 
Porphyria's love : she guessed not how 

Her darling one wish would be heard. 
And thus we sit together now. 

And all night long we have not stirred, 
And yet God has not said a word ! 

FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF 

BURIAL. 

A Reminiscence of A.D. 1676. 
I. 
No, boy, we must not (so began 

My Uncle— he's with God long since — 
A-petting me, the good old man !) 

We must not (and he seemed to wince. 
And lose that laugh whereto had grown 

His chuckle at my piece of news. 
How cleverly I aimed my stone) 

I fear we must not pelt the Jews ! 



Filippo Baldinucci on Bui^ial. 269 



II. 

When I was young indeed, — ah, faith 

Was young and strong in Florence too ! 
We Christians never dreamed of scathe 

Because we cursed or kicked the crew. 
But now — well, well ! The olive-crops 

Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks 
W^ould always spare religious shops 

W^henever he o'erflowed his banks ! 

III. 
ril tell you (and his eye regained 

Its twinkle) tell you something choice ! 
Something may help you keep unstained 

Your honest zeal to stop the voice 
Of unbelief with stone-throw^ — spite 

Of laws, which modern fools enact, 
That we must suffer Jews in sight 

Go wholly unmolested ! Fact ! 

IV. 

There was, then, in my youth, and yet 

Is, by San Frediano, just 
Below the Blessed Olivet, 

A wayside ground wherein they thrust 
Their dead, — these Jews, — the more our shame ! 

Except that, so they will but die, 
We may perchance incur no blame 

In giving hogs a hoist to stye. 

V. 

There, anyhow, Jews stow away 

Their dead ; and, — such their insolence, — 
Slink at odd times to sing and pray 

As Christians do — all make -pretense ! — 
Which wickedness they perpetrate 

Because they think no Christians see. 
They reckoned here, at any rate. 

Without their host : ha, ha, he, he ! 

VI. 

For, what should join their plot of ground 
But a good Farmer's Christian field } 

The Jews had hedged their corner round 
With bramble-bush to keep concealed 

Their doings : for the public road 

Ran betwixt this their ground and that 



270 



Filippo Baldinucci on Burial. 



The Farmer's, where he plowed and sowed, 
Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat. 

VII. 

So, properly to guard his store 

And gall the unbeUevers too. 
He builds a shrine and, what is more. 

Procures a painter whom 1 knew, 
One Buti (he's with God) to paint 

A holy picture there — no less 
Than Virgin Mary free from taint 

Borne to the sky by angels : yes ! 




\. 



\ 



Which shrine he fixed. 



VIII. 

Which shrine he fixed, — who says him nay? — 

A-facing with its picture-side 
Not, as you'd think, the public way. 

But just where souglu these hounds to hide 
Their carrion from that very truth 

Of Mary's triumph ; not a hound 



Pilippo Baldinucci on Bicri.il, 271 

Could act his mummeries uncouth 
But Mary shamed the pack all round ! 

IX. 

Now, if it was amusing, judge ! 

— To see the company arrive. 
Each Jew intent to end his trudge 

And take his pleasure (though alive) 
With all his Jewish kith and kin 

Below ground, have his venom out, 
Sharpen his wits for next day's sin, 

Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt ! 

X. 

Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds 

Mary, I warrant, soarii^g brave ! 
And in a trice, beneath the folds 

Of hlthy gaib which gowns each knave, 
Down drops it — there to hide grimace. 

Contortion of the mouth and nose 
At finding Mary in the place 

They'd keep for Pilate, I suppose ! 

XI. 

At last, they will not brook — not they I — 

Longer such outrage on their tribe : 
So, in some hole and corner, lay 

Their heads together — how to bribe 
The meritorious Farmer's self 

To straight undo his work, restore 
Their chance to meet and muse on pelf — 

Pretending sorrow, as before ! 

XII. 

Forthw^ith, a posse, if vou please, 

Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That 
Almost go down upon their knees 

To get him lay the picture flat. 
The spokesman, eighty years of age, 

Gray as a badger, with a goat's 
— Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage 

War with our Mary. Thus he dotes :— 

XIII. 

** Friends, grant a grace ! How Hebrews toil 

Through life in Florence — why relate 
To those who lay the burden, spoil 

Our paths of peace ? We bear our fate. 



272 Fitippo Baldinucci on BiiriaL 



But when with hfe the long toil ends, 
Why must you— the expression craves 

Pardon, but truth compels me, friends ! — 
Why must you plague us in our graves? 

XIV. 
" Thoughtlessly plague, I w^ould believe ! 

For how can you — the lords of ease 
By nurture, birthright — e'en conceive 

Our luxury to lie with trees 
And turf, — the cricket and the bird 

Left for our last companionship : 
No harsh deed, no unkindly word, 

No frowning brow nor scornful lip ! 

XV. 

*' Death's luxury, we now rehearse 

While, living, through your streets we fare 
And take your hatred : nothing worse 

Have we, once dead and safe, to bear ! 
So we refresh our souls, fulfill 

Our works, our daily tasks ; and thus 
Gather you grain — earth's harvest — still 

The wheat for you, the straw for us. 

XVI. 

** • What flouting in a face, what harm. 

In just a lady borne from bier 
By boys' heads, w-ings for leg and arm ? ' 

You question. Friends, the harm is here — 
That just when our last sigh is heaved, 

And w^e would fain thank God and you 
For labor done and peace achieved, 

Back comes the Past in full review ! 

XVII. 

" At sight of just that simple flag. 

Starts the foe-feeling seri)ent-like 
From slumber. Leave it lulled nor drag — 

Though fangless— forth, what needs must strike 
When stricken sore, though stroke be vain 

Against the mailed oppressor ! Give 
Play to our fancy that we gain 

Life's rights when once we cease to live ! 

XVIII. 

*' Thus much to courtesy, to kind. 

To conscience ! Now to Florence folk ! 



Pilippo Baldinucci on BuriaL 273 

There's core beneath this apple-rind, 
Beneath this white of egg" there's yolk ! 

Beneath this prayer to courtesy, 

Kind, conscience — there's a sum to pouch ! 

How many ducats down will buy 

Our shame's removal, sirs ? Avouch ! 

XIX. 

*' Removal, not destruction, sh's ! 

Just turn your picture ! Let it front 
The public path ! Or memory errs, 

Or that the same public path is wont 
To witness many a chance befall ! 

Of lust, theft, bloodshed — sins enough, 
Wherein our Hebrew part is small. 

Convert yourselves ! " — he cut up rough. 

XX. 

Look you, how soon a service paid 

Religion yields the servant fruit ! 
A prompt reply our Farmer made 

So following : " Sirs, to grant your suit 
Involves much danger. How } Transpose 

Our Lady } Stop the chastisement, 
All for your good, herself bestows } 

What wonder if I grudge consent } 

XXI. 

— " Yet grant it : since, what cash I take 

Is so much saved from wicked use. 
We know you ! And, for Mary's sake, 

A hundred ducats shall induce 
Concession to your prayer. One day 

Suffices : Master Buti's brush 
Turns Mary round the other way, 

And deluges your side with slush. 

XXII. 

" Down wnth the ducats therefore ! " Dump, 

Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece, 
Hard gold. Then out of door they slump. 

These dogs, each brisk as with new lease 
Of life, I warrant, —glad he'll die 

Henceforw^ard just as he may choose. 
Be buried and in clover lie ! 

Well said Esaias — ** stiff-necked Jews ! '\ 



5 74 Filippo Baldinucci on Burial. 

XXIII. 

Off posts, without a minute's loss 

Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, 
And summons Buti — ere its gloss 

Have time to fade from off the joke — 
To chop and change his work, undo 

The done side, make the side, now blank. 
Recipient of our Lady — who. 

Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank ! 

XXIV. 

Now, you're no boy I need instruct 

In technicalities of Art ! 
My nephew's childhood sure has sucked 

Along with mother's-milk some part 
Of painter's-practice — learned, at least, 

How expeditiously is plied 
A work in fresco — never ceased 

When once begun — a day each side. 

XXV. 

So, Buti— he's with God— begins : 

First covers up the shrine all round 
With hoarding: then, as like as twins, 

Paints, t'other side the burial-ground. 
New Mary, every point the same ; 

Next, sluices over, as agreed. 
The old; and last — but spoil the game 

By telling you? Not I, indeed ! 

XXVI. 

Well, ere the week was half at end, 

Out came the object of this zeal. 
This tine alacrity 'to spend 

Hard money for mere dead men's weal! 
How think you } That old spokesman Jew 

Was High Priest, and he had a wife 
As old, and slie was dying too. 

And wished to end in peace her life ! 

XXVII. 

And he must humor dying whims. 
And soothe her with the idle hope 

They'd say their prayers and sing their hymns 
As if her husband were the Pope ! 

And she did die— believing just 

This privilege was purchased ! Dead 



Ptlippo Baldih ucci on BiLriaL 275 

In comfort through her foolish trust ! 
" Stiff-necked ones," well Esaias said ! 

XXVIII. 

So, Sabbath morning, out of gate 

And on to way, what sees our arch 
Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight — 

The corpse— on shoulder, and so, march! 
** Now for it, Buti ! " In the nick 

Of time 'tis pully-hauly, hence 
With hoarding ! O'er the wayside quick 

There's Mary plain in evidence ! 

XXIX. 

And here's the convoy halting: right ! 

Oh, they are bent on howling psalms 
And growling prayers when opposite! 

And yet they glance for all their qualms. 
Approve that promptitude of his, 

The Farmer's— duly at his post 
To take due thanks from every phiz, 

Sour smirk — nay, surly smile almost ! 

XXX. 

Then earthward drops each brow again ; 

The solenm tasks resumed ; they reach 
Their holy field — the unholy train : 

Enter its precinct, all and each, 
W^rapt somehow in their godless rites ; 

Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo 
They lift their faces ! What delights 

The mourners as they turn to go? 

XXXI. 

Ha, ha, he, he ! On just the side 

They drew their purse-strings to make quit 
Of Mary, — Christ the Ci"ucified 

Fronted them now — these biters bit ! 
Never was such a hiss and snort. 

Such screwing nose and shooting lip ! 
Their purchase — honey in report — 

Proved gall and verjuice at first sip ! 

XXXII. 

Out they break, on they bustle, where, 

A-top of wall, the Farmer waits 
W' ith Buti : never fun so rare ! 

The Farmer has the best : he rates 



276 Filippo BaidiniiccL on Burial, 

The rascal, as the old High Priest 
Takes on himself to sermonize — 

Nay, sneer '* We Jews supposed, at least, 
Theft was a crime in Christian eyes ! " 

XXXIII. 

'* Theft ? " cries the Farmer, '* Eat your words ! 

Show me what constitutes a breach 
Of faith in aught was said or heard ! 

I promised you in plainest speech 
I'd take the thing you count disgrace 

And put it here— and here 'tis put ! 
Did you suppose I'd leave the place 

Blank therefore, just your rage to glut ? 

XXXIV. 

" I guess you dared not stipulate 

For such a damned impertinence ! 
So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate 

And in at Ghetto ! Haste you hence ! 
As long as I have house and land, 

To spite you irreligious chaps 
Here shall the Crucifixion stand — 

Unless you down with cash, perhaps ! " 

XXXV. 

So snickered he and Buti both. 

The Jews said nothing, interchanged 
A glance or two, renewed their oath 

To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged 
From grace, for all our Church can do, 

Then off they scuttle : sullen jog 
Homewards against our Church to brew 

Fresh mischief in their synagogue. 

XXXVI. 

But next day — see what happened, boy! 

See why I bid you have a care 
How you pelt Jews ! The knaves employ 

Such methods of revenge, forbear 
No outrage on our faith, when free 

To wreak their malice ! Here they took 
So base a method — ])lague o' me 

If I record it in my Book ! 

XXXVIT. 

For, next day, while tlie Farmer sat 
Laughing with Buti, in his shop, 



Pilippo Baldimiccl on Burial, 277 

At their successful joke, — rat-tat, 

Door opens, and the\^'re like to drop 
Down to the floor as in there stalks 

A six-feet-high herculean-built 
Young he-Jew with a beard that balks 

Description. " Help, ere blood be spilt ! " 

XXXVIII. 

— Screamed Buti : for he recosrnized 

Whom but the son, no less no more, 
Of that High Priest his work surprised 

So pleasantly the day before ! 
Son of the mother, then, whereof 

Tlie bier he lent a shoulder to, 
And made the moans about, dared scoff 

At sober, Christian grief — the Jew ! 

XXXIX. 

*' Sirs, I salute you ! Never rise ! 

No apprehension ! " (Buti, white 
And trembling like a tub of size. 

Had tried to smuggle out of sight 
The picture's self — the thing in oils. 

You know, from which a fresco's dashed 
Which courage speeds while caution spoils) 

*' Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed ! 

XL. 

" Praised, — ay, and paid too : for I come 

To buy that very work of yours. 
My poor abode, which boasts — well, some 

Few specimens of Art, secures 
Haply, a masterpiece indeed 

If I should find my humble means 
Suffice the outlay. So, proceed ! 

Propose — ere prudence intervenes ! ** 

XLI. 

On Buti, cowering like a child. 

These words descended from aloft, 
In tone so ominously mild. 

With smile terrifically soft 
To that degree — could Buti dare 

(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice ? 
He asked, thus taken unaware. 

No more than just the proper price ! 



^7^ Filippo Baldifiiicci on Burial, 

XLII. 

** Done ! " cries the monster. " I disburse 

Forthwith your moderate demand. 
Count on my custom — if no worse 

Your future work be, understand, 
Than this I carry off ! No aid ! 

My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews : 
The burden's easy, and we're made, 

Easy or hard, to bear— we Jews ! " 

XLIII. 

Crossing himself at such escape, 

Buti by turns the money eyes 
And, timidly, the stalwart shape 

Now^ moving doorwards ; but, more wise, 
The Farmer — who, though dumb, this while 

Had watched advantage, — straight conceived 
A reason for that tone and smile 

So mild and soft ! The Jew — believed ! 

XLIV. 

Mary in triumph borne to deck 

A Hebrew household ! Pictured where 
No one was used to bend the neck 

In praise or bow the knee in prayer ! 
Borne to that domicile by whom ? 

The son of the High Priest ! Through what ? 
An insult done his mother's tomb ! 

Saul changed to Paul — the case came pat ! 

XLV. 

"Stay, dog-Jew . . . gentle sir, that is! 

Resolve me ! Can it be, she crowned — 
Mary, by miracle — Oh bliss ! — 

My present to your burial gi'ound ? 
Certain, a ray of hght has burst 

Your veil of darkness ! Had you else. 
Only for Mary's sake, un pursed 

So much hard money? Tell — oh, tell's? '* 

XLVI. 

Round — like a serpent that we took 
For worm and trod on — turns his bulk 

About the Jew. First dreadful look 
Sends Buti in a trice to skulk 

Out of sight somewhere, safe — alack ! 
But our good Farmer faith made bold : 



Filippo Baldinucci on Burial. 279 

And firm (with Florence at his back) 

He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled — 

XLVII. 

" Ay, sir, a miracle was worked, 

By quite another power, I trow, 
Than ever yet in canvas lurked. 

Or you would scarcely face me now ! 
A certain impulse did suggest 

A certain grasp with this right hand. 
Which probably had put to rest 

Our quarrel, — thus your throat once spanned! 

XLVIII. 
"But I remembered me, subdued 

That impulse, and you face me still! 
And soon a philosophic mood 

Succeeding (hear it, if you will!) 
Has altogether changed my views 

Concerning Art. Blind prejudice! 
Well may you Christians tax us Jews ■ 

With scrupulosity too nice ! 

XLIX. 

"For, don't I see, — let's issue join ! — ■ 

Whenever Fm allowed pollute 
(I — and my little bag of coin) 

Some Christian palace of repute, 
Don't I see stuck up everywhere 

Abundant proof that cultured taste 
Has Beauty for its only care, 

And upon Truth no thought to w^aste ? 

L. 

"'Jew, since it must be, take in pledge 

Of payment ' — so a Cardinal 
Has sighed to me as if a wedge 

Entered his heart — * this best of all 
My treasures! ' Leda, Ganymede, 

Or Antiope : swan, eagle, ape 
(Or what's the beast of what's the breed), 

And Jupiter in every shape ! 

LI. 

" Whereat if I presume to ask 

'But, Eminence, though Titian's w^hisk 

Of brush have well performed its task, 
fiow comes it these false godships frisk 



28o 



Filippo Baldinucci on BiiriaL 




Leda. 



In presence of — what yon- 
der frame 
Pretends to image ? Sure- 
ly, odd 
It seems, you let confront 
The Name 
Each beast the heathen 
called his god ! ' 

LII. 

'' Benignant smiles me pily 
straight 
The Cardinal. * 'Tis 
Truth, we prize ! 
Art's the sole question in 
debate ! 
These subjects are so 
many lies. 
We treat them with a 
proper scorn 
When we turn lies— called gods forsooth— 
To lies' tit use, now Christ is born. 
Drawing and coloring are Truth. 

LIII. 
•' ' Think you I honor lies so much 

As scruple to parade the charms 
Of Leda —Titian, every touch— 

Because the thing within her arms 
Means Jupiter who had the praise 

And prayer of a benighted world ? 
Benighted I too, if, in days 

Of light, I kept the canvas furled ! ' 

LIV. 

•' So ending, with some easy gibe. 

What power has logic ! I, at once, 
Acknowledged error in our tribe. 

So squeamish that, when friends ensconce 
A pretty picture in its niche 

To do us honor, deck our graves, 
We fret and fume and have an itch 

To strangle folk— ungrateful knaves ! 

LV. 
*' No, sir ! Be sure that— what's its style,^ 
Your picture ?— shall possess ungrudgecl 
A place among my rank and file 



SoliIoqi4y of the Spanish Cloister. 281 



Of Ledas— and what not— be judged 
Just as a picture !— and (because 

I fear me much I scarce have bouglu 
A Titian) Master Buti's flaws 

Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought ! 
LVI. 
So, with a scow], it darkens door — 

This bulk — no longer! Euti makes 
Prompt glad re-entry ; there's a score 

Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes 
From what must needs have been a trance, 

Or he had struck (he swears) to ground 
The bold bad mouth that dared advance 

Such doctrine the reverse of sound. 

LVII. 

Was magic here ? Most like ! For, since, 

Somehow our city's faith grows still 
More and more lukewarm, and our Prince 

Or loses heart or wants the will 
To check increase of cold. 'Tis " Live 

And let live ! Languidly repress 
The Dissident ! In short,— contrive 

Christians must bear with Jews : no less ! " 

LVIII. 
The end seems, any Israelite 

Wants any picture,— pishes, poohs, 
Purchases, hangs it full in sight 

In any chamber he may choose ! 
In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! 

In Mary's bosom, one more sword ! 
No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew ! 

O Lord, how long ? How^ long, O Lord ? 

SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. 

I. 
Gr-r-r— there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 

Water your damned flower-pots, do ! 
If hate killed men. Brother Lawrence, 

God's blood, would not mine kill you ! 
What? 3^our myrtle-bush wants trimming? 

Oh, that rose has prior claims- 
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? 

Hell dry you up w^ith its flames ! 



282 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister. 

11. 
At the meal we sit together : 

Salve tibi I Imusthear 
Wise talk of the kind of weather, 

Sort of season, time of year : 
A^ot a plenteous cork-crop : scarcely 
Dare zve hope oak-galls, I doubt : 
What's the Latin name for ''parsley " f 
What's the Greek name of Swine's snout ? 




While brown Dolores 
Squats outside the Convent bank. 

III. 

Whew ! We'll have our platter burnished. 

Laid with care on our own shelf ! 
W' ith a fire-new spoon we're furnished, 

And a goblet for ourself,> 
Rinsed like something sacrificial 

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — 
Marked with L. for our initial ! 

(He-he ! There his lily snaps !) 

IV. 

Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dolores 
Squats outside the Convent bank 

With Sanchicha, teUing stories, 
Steeping tresses in the tank, 

Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, 
— Can't I see his dead eye glow, 



Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister. 283 

Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's ? 
(That is, if he'd let it show !) 

V. 

When he finishes refection, 

Knife and fork he never lays 
Cross-wise, to my recollection, 

As do I, in Jesu's praise. 
I the Trinity illustrate, 

Drinking watered orange-pulp — 
In three sips the Arian frustrate;! 

While he drains his at one gulp. 

VI. 

Oh, those melons ! If he's able 

We're to have a feast ! so nice ! 
One goes to the Abbot's table. 

All of us get each a slice. 
How go on your flowers ? None double ? 

Not one fruit-sort can you spy } 
Strange! — And I, too, at such trouble 

Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! 

VII. 

There's a great text in Galatians, 

Once you trip on it, entails 
Twenty-nine distinct damnations, 

One sure, if another fails : 
If I trip him just a-dying. 

Sure of heaven as sure can be, 
Spin him round and send him flying 

Off to hell, a Manichee } 

VIII. 

Or, my scrofulous French novel 

On gray paper with blunt type ! 
Simply glance at it, you grovel 

Hand and foot in BeliaPs gripe : 
If I double down its pages 

At the woeful sixteenth print, 
When he gathers his greengages, 

Ope a sieve and sHp it in't } 

IX. 

Or, there's Satan ! — one might venture 

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 
Such a flaw in the indenture 

As he'd miss till, past retrieve, 



284 The Heretic s Tragedy. 

Blasted lay that rose-acacia 

We're so proud of ! Hy.Zy, Hiiie . . . 

'St, there's Vespers ! Plena gratia 
Ave Virgo I Gr-r-r — you swine ! 

THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. 

A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. 

ROSA MUNDI ; SEU, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS. A CON'CEIT OF MASTER 
GVSBRECHT, CANON -R EGULAR OF SAINT JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR, 
YPRES CITY, CANTIQUE, VirgiUllS. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN 
SUNG AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALS. GAVISL S ERAM, JesisdeS. 

(It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques 
du Bourg- Mola}'. at Paris, a. d. 1314 ; as distorted by the refrac- 
tion from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of 
centuries.) 

I. 

PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. 

The Lord, we look to once for all, 

Is the Lord, we should look at, all at once : 
He knows not to vary, saith St. Paul, 

Nor the shadow of turning", for the nonce. 
See him no other than as he is ! 

Give both the infinitudes their due — 
Infinite mercy, but, I wis. 

As infinite a justice too. 

[Organ : plagal-cadence. 

As infinite a justice too. 

II. 

ONE SINGETH. 

John, Master of the Temple of God, 

Falling to sin tb.e Unknown Sin, 
What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod, 

He sold it to Sultan Saladin : 
Till caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there, 

Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive, 
And dipt of his wings in Paris square, 
The^^ bring him now to be burned alive. 

[And luanteth there grace of hite 
or clavicithern, ye shall say to 
confirm hi in. a' ho singeth — 
We bring John now to be burned alive. 

III. 

In the midst is a goodly gallows built ; 

'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck ; 
But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt. 



The Heretic s Tragedy. 285 



Make a trench all round with the city muck ; 
Inside the}- pile log upon log, good store ; 

Fagots not few, blocks great and small, 
Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more, — 

For they mean he should roast in the sight of all. 

CHORUS. 
We mean he should roast in the sight of all. 

IV. 

Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith ; 

Billets that blaze substantial and slow ; 
Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith ; 

Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow; 
Then up they hoist me John in a chafe. 

Sling him fast like a hog to scorch. 
Spit in his face, then leap back safe. 

Sing " Laudes," and bid clap-to the torch. 

CHORUS. 
Laus Deo — who bids clap-to the torch. 

V. 
John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged, 

Is burning alive in Paris square ! 
How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged ? 
Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there ? 
Or heave his chest, while a band goes round ? 

Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced ? 
Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound ? 
—Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ. 

{^Here 07ie crosseth hitnself. 
VI. 
Jesus Christ — John had bought and sold, 

Jesus Christ— John had eaten and drunk ; 
To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold. 
{Salvd reverentid?) 

Now it was, '* Saviour, bountiful lamb, 

I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me ! 
See thy servant, the plight wherein I am ! 
Art thou a saviour ? Save thou me ! " 

CHORUS. 
'Tis John the mocker cries, '' Save thou me ! " 

VII. 
Who maketh God's menace an idle word ? 
— Saith, it no more means what it proclaims, 



286 The Heretic s Tragedy. 

Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird ? — 

For she too prattles of ugly names. 
— Saith, he knoweth but one thing, — what he knows? 

That God is good and the rest is breath ; 
Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose? 

Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith. 

CHORUS. 
Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith. 

VIII. 

Alack, there be roses and roses, John ! 

Some honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue: 
Some, bitter ; for why ? (roast gayly on !) 

Their tree struck root in devil's dung. 
When Paul once reasoned of righteousness 

And of temperance and of judgment to come, 
Good Felix trembled, he could no less : 

John, snickering, crooked his wicked thumb. 

CHORUS. 
What cometh to John of the wicked thumb ? 

IX. 

Ha, ha ! John plucketh now at his rose 

To rid himself of a sorrow at heart ! 
Lo, — petal on petal, fierce rays unclose ; 

Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart ; 
And with blood for dew, the bosom boils ; 

And a gust of sulphur is all its smell ; 
And lo, he is horribly in the toils 

Of a coal-black giant flower of hell ! 

CHORUS. 

What maketh heaven. That maketh hell. 

X. 

So, as John called now, through the fire amain, 

On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life — 
To the Person, he bought and sold again — 

For the Face, with his daily buffets rife — 
Feature by feature It took its place ; 

And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark, 
At the steady whole of the Judge's face — 

Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark. 

SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. 

God help all poor souls lost in the dark ! 



Holy 'Cross Day. 287 



HOLY-CROSS DAY. 

ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCED TO ATTEND AN AN- 
NUAL CHRISTIAN SERMON IN ROME. 

['* Now was come about Holy-Cross Day, and now must my lord preach his first 
sermon to the Jews : as it was of old cared for in the merciful bowels of the Church, 
that, so to speak, a crumb, at least, from her conspicuous table here in Rome, 
should be, though but once yearly, cast to the famishing dogs, under-trampled and 
bespitten-upon beneath the feet of the guests. And a moving sight in truth, this, 
of so many of the besotted blind restif and ready-to-perish Hebrews ! now mater- 
nally brought — nay (for he saith, ' Compel them to come in'), haled, as it were, by 
the head and hair, and against their obstinate hearts, to partake of the heavenly 
grace. What awakening, what striving with tears, what working of a yeasty con- 
science ! Nor was my lord wanting to himself on so apt an occasion ; witness the 
abundance of conversions which did incontinently reward him : though not to my 
lord be altogether the glory." — Diary by the Bishop's Secretary. 1600.] 

What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect. 

I. 

Fee, faw, fum ! bubble and squeak ! 
Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week. 
Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, 
Stinking and sav^ory, smug and gruff, 
Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime 
Gives us the summons — 'tis sermon-time ! 

II. 
Boh, here's Barnabas ! Job, that's you ? 
Up stumps Solomon — busthng too.'* 
Shame, man ! greedy beyond your years 
To handsel the bishop's shaving-shears ? 
Fair play's a jewel ! Leave friends in the lurch ? 
Stand on a line ere you start for the church ! 

III. 

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, 
Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, 
Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve; 
Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve. 
Hist ! square shoulders, settle your thumbs 
And buzz for the bishop — here he comes. 

IV. 

Bow, wow, wow — a bone for the dog ! 

I liken his Grace to an acorned hog. 

What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass, 

To help and handle my lord's hour-glass ! 

Didst ever behold so lithe a chine ? 

His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine. 

V. 
Aaron's asleep — shove hip to haunch. 
Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch ! 



288 Holy -Cross Day. 



Look at the purse with the tassel and knob, 
And the gown with the angel and thingumbob ! 
What's he at, quotha ? reading his text ! 
Now you've his courtesy — and what comes next ? 

VI. 

See to our converts — you doomed bL^ck dozen — 

No steahng away — nor cog nor cozen ! 

You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly ; 

You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely : 

You took your turn and dipped in the hat, 

Got fortune — and fortune gets you; mind that I 

VII. 

Give your first groan — compunction's at work ; 
And soft ! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. 
Lo, Micah, — the selfsame beard on chin 
He was four times already converted in ! 
Here's a knife, clip quick — it's a sign of grace — 
Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face. 

VIII. 

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at } 

I know a point where his text falls pat. 

I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just now 

Went to my heart and marie me vow 

To meddle no more with the worst of trades : 

Let somebody else play his serenades ! 

IX. 

Groan all together now, whee — hee — hee ! 

It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me ! 

It began, w^hen a herd of us, picked and placed. 

Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist ; 

Jew brutes, with svveat and blood well spent 

To usher in worthily Christian Lent. 

X. 

It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds, 

Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds : 

It got to a pitch, when the hand indeed 

Which gutted my purse, would throttle my creed : 

And it overflows, when, to even the odd. 

Men I helped to their sins, help me to their God. 

XI. 

But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, 
And the rest sit silent and count the clock. 



Holy-Ci^oss Day. 289 



Since forced to muse the appointed time 
On these precious facts and truths sublime,- - 
Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, 
In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death. 

XII. 

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died, 

Called sons and sons' sons to his side. 

And spoke, ** This world has been harsh and strange ; 

Something is wrong : there needeth a change. 

But what, or where ? at the last or first ? 

In one point only we sinned, at worst. 

XIII. 

" The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, 
And again in his border see Israel set. 
When Judah beholds Jerusalem, 
The stranger-seed shall be joined to them : 
To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave, 
So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.. 

XIV. 

" Ay, the children of the chosen race 
Shall carry and bring them to their place : 
In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, ' 
Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame. 
When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er 
The oppressor triumph for evermore \ 

XV. 

" God spoke, and gave us the word to keep: 
Bade never fold the hands nor sleep 
'Mid a faithless world, — at watch and ward, 
Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. 
By his servant Moses the watch was set : 
Though near upon cock-crow we keep it yet. 

XVI. 
" Thou ! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came, 
By the starlight, naming a dubious name ! 
And if, too heavy with sleep — too rash 
With fear— O thou, if that martyr-gash 
Fell on thee, coming to take thine ow^n, 
And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne — 

XVII. 

*' Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. 
But, the judgment over, join sides with us ! 



2 9© Amphibian. 



Thine too is the cause ! and not more thine 
Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, 
Whose hfe laughs through and spits at their creed, 
Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed ! 

XVIII. 

** We withstood Christ then ? Be mindful how 
At least we withstand Barabbas now ! 
Was our outrage sore ? But the worst we spared, 
To have called these — Christians, had we dared ! 
Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee. 
And Rome make amends for Calvary ! 

XIX. 

** By the torture, prolonged from age to age, 

By the infamy, Israel's heritage. 

By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, 

By the badge of shame, by the felon's place, 

By the branding tool, the bloody whip. 

And the summons to Christian fellowship, — 

XX. ' 

" We boast our proof that at least the Jew 
Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew. 
Thy face took never so deep a shade 
But we fought them in it, God our aid ! 
A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band 
South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land ! " 

[ The late Pope abolished this bad b7isi7iess of the 
sermon. — R. B.] 

AMPHIBIAN. 

I. 
The fancy I had to- day, 
' Fancy which turned a fear! 
I swam far out in the bay, 

Since waves laughed warm and clear. 

II. 

I lay and looked at the sun, 

The noon-sun looked at me: 
Between us two, no one 

Live creature, that I could see, 

III. 

Yes! There came floating by 
Me, who lay floating too, 



Amphibian. 291 



Such a strange butterfly ! 
Creature as dear as new : 

IV. 

Because the membraned wings 

So wonderful, so wide, 
So sun-suffused, were things 

Like soul and naught beside. 

V. 

A hand breadth over head ! 

All of the sea my own, 
It owned the sky instead ; 

Both of us were alone. 

VI. 

I never shall join its flight, 
For naught buoys flesh in air. 

If it touch the sea— good-night ! 
Death sure and swift waits there. 

VII. 
Can the insect feel the better 

For watching the uncouth play 
Of limbs that slip the fetter, 

Pretend as they were not clay } 

VIII. 

Undoubtedly I rejoice 

That the air comports so well 
With a creature which had the choice 

Of the land once. Who can tell } 

IX. 

What if a certain soul 

Which early slipped its sheath, 
And has for its home the whole 

Of heaven, thus look beneath, 

X. 

Thus watch one who, in the world, 
Both lives and likes life's way, 

Nor wishes the wings unfurled 
That sleep in the worm, they say? 

XI. 
But sometimes when the weather 

Is blue, and warm waves tempt 
To free one's self of tether, 

And try a life exempt 



29 2 Amphibia7t. 



XII. 

From worldly noise and dust, 
In the sphere which overbrims 

With passion and thought, — why, just 
Unable to fly, one swims ! 

XIII. 

By passion and thought upborne. 

One smiles to one's self — " They fare 

Scarce better, they need not scorn 
Our sea, who live in the air ! " 

XIV. 

Emancipate through passion 
And thought, with sea for sky 

We substitute, in a fashion, 
For heaven — poetry : 

XV. 
Which sea, to all intent, 

Gives flesh such noon-disport 
As a finer element 

Affords the spirit-sort. 

XVI. 

Whatever they are, we seem : 
Imagine the thing they know ; 

All deeds they do, we dream ; 
Can heaven be else but^ so } 

XVII. 



And meantime, yonder streak 
Meets the horizon's verge ; 

That is the land, to seek 

If we tire or dread the surge ; 

XVIII. 

Land the solid and safe — 
To welcome again (confess !) 

When, high and dry, we chafe 
The body, and don the dress. 

XIX. 
Does she look, pity, wonder 

At one who mimics flight, 
Swims — heaven above, sea under, 

Yet always earth in sight? 



^ 



Sf. Ma7'tin s Summer. 293 



ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. 

I. 

No protesting, dearest ! 
Hardly kisses even ! 

Don't we both know how it ends. ^ 
How the greenest leaf turns searest ? 
Bluest outbreak — blankest heaven } 
Lovers — friends } 

II. 

You would build a mansion, 
I would weave a bower 

— Want the heart for enterprise. 
Walls admit of no expansion : 
Trellis-work may haply flower 
Twice the size. 

III. 
What makes glad Life's Winter? 
New buds, old blooms after. 
Sad the sighing '' How suspect 
Beams would ere mid-autumn splinter, 
Rooftree scarce support a rafter, 
Walls lie wrecked ? " 

IV. 

You are young, my princess ! 
I am hardly older: 

Yet — I steal a glance behind ! 
Dare I tell you what convinces 
Timid me that you, if bolder, 
Bold — are blind '^ 

V. 

Where we plan our dwelling 
Glooms a graveyard surely ! 

Headstone, footstone moss may drape,- 
Name, date, violets hide from spelling, — 
But, though corpses rot obscurely, 
Ghosts escape. 

VI. 

Ghosts ! O breathing Beauty, 
Give my frank word pardon ! 

What if I — somehow, somewhere — 
Pledged my soul to endless duty 
Many a time and oft } Be hard on 
Love— laid there } 



294 Sf. Martin s Summer, 



VII. 

Nay, blame grief that's fickle, 
Time that proves a traitor, 

Chance, change, all that purpose warps, — 
Death who spares to thrust the sickle, 

Which laid Love low, through flowers which later 
Shroud the corpse! 

VIII. 
And you, my winsome lady, 

Whisper me with like frankness ! 
Lies nothing buried long ago? 
Are yon — which shimmer mid what's shady 
Where moss and violet run to rankness — 
Tombs, or no ? 

IX. 

Who taxes you with murder ? 

My hands are clean — or nearly ! 

Love being mortal needs must pass. 
Repentance } Nothing were absuider. 

Enough : we felt Love's loss severely; 

. Though now — alas ! 

X. 

Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, 
Only Love's ghost plays truant, 

And warns us have in wholesome awe 
Durable mansionry; that's wherefore 
I weave but trellis-work, pursuant 
— Life, to law. 

XI. 
The solid, not the fragile, 

Tempts rain and hail and thunder. 

If bower stand firm at autumn's close, 
Beyond my hope, — why, boughs were agile; 
If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder 
Wreathing — rose ! 

XII. 

So, truce to the protesting, 
So, muffled be the kisses ! 

For, would we but avow the truth, 
Sober is genuine joy. No jesting ! 
Ask else Penelope, Ulysses — 
Old in youth ! 



James Lee's Wife. 295 



XIII. 
For why should ghosts feel angered ? 
Let all their interference 

Be faint march-music in the air! 
" Up ! Join the rear of us the vanguard ! 
Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, 
Laggard pair ! " 

XIV. 

The while you clasp me closer. 
The while I press you deeper, 
As safe we chuckle, — under breath, 
Yet all the slyer, the jocoser, — 

"So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, 
Stolen from death ! " 

XV. 
Ah me — the sudden terror ! 

Hence quick — avaunt, avoid me, 

You cheat, the ghostly fiesh-disguised ! 
Nay, all the ghosts in one ! Strange error ! 

So, 'twas Death's self that clipped and coyed me, 
Loved — and lied ! 

XVI. 
Ay, dead loves are the potent ! 
Like any cloud they used you, 

Mere semblance you, but substance they! 
Build we no mansion, weave we no tent ! 
Mere flesh — their spirit interfused you ! 
Hence, I say ! 

XVII. 
All theirs, none yours the glamour! 
Theirs each low word that won me. 

Soft look that found me Love's, and left 
What else but you — the tears and clamor 
That's all your very own ! Undone me — 
Ghost-bereft ! 

JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 
L 

JAMES lee's wife SPEAKS AT THE WINDOW. 

I. 

Ah, Love, but a day, 

And the world has changed ! 
The sun's away, 

And the bird estranged ; 



296 



James Lees Wife. 




Me» to hoj-d embraced. 



The wind has dropped, 

And the sky's deranged 
Summer has stopped. 



II. 

Look in my eyes ! 

Wilt thou change too } 
Should I fear surprise? 

Shall I find aught new 
In the old and dear, 

In the good and true. 
With the changing year 1 

III. 

Thou art a man, 
But I am thy love. 

For the lake, its swan ; 
For the dell, its dove; 

And for thee— (oh, haste I) 
Me to bend above, 

Me, to hold embraced. 

II. 

BY THE FIRESIDE. 



I. 

Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, 

Oak and pine ? 
Oh, for the ills half-understood, 

The dim dead woe 

Long ago 
Befallen this bitter coast of France ! 
Well, poor sailors took their chance ; 

I take mine. 

II. 

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot 

O'er the sea ; 
Do sailors eye the casement— mute 

Drenched and stark, 

From their bark — 
And envy, gnash their teeth for hate 
O' the warm safe house and happy freight 

— Thee and me ? 

III. 
God help you, sailors, at your need ! 
Spare the curse ! 



James Lee s Wife, 297 



For some ships, safe in port indeed, 

Rot and rust, 

Run to dust, 
All through worms i' the wood, which crept, 
Gnawed our hearts out while we slept : 
That is worse. 

IV. 

Who lived here before us two ? 

Old-world pairs. 
Did a woman ever— would I knew ! 

Watch the man 

With whom began 
Love's voyage full-sail,— (now, gnash your teeth !) 
When planks start, open hell beneath 

Unawares. 

III. 

IX THE DOORWAY. 
I. 

The swallow has set her six young on the rail, 

And looks seaward : 
The water's in stripes, like a snake, olive-pale 

To the leeward, — 
On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind. 
*' Good fortune departs, and disaster's behind,"— 
Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail ! 

II. 

Our fig-tree, that leaned for the saltness, has furled 

Her five fingers, 
Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world 

Where there lingers 
No glint of the gold. Summer sent for her sake : 
How the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake ! 
My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled. 

III. 

Yet here are we two ; we have love, house enough 

With the field there, 
This house of four rooms, that field red and rough. 

Though it yield there, 
For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent ; 
If a magpie alight now, it seems an event ; 
And they both will be gone at November's rebuff. 



298 James Lees Wife. 



IV. 

But why must cold spread ? but wherefore bring change 

To the spirit, 
God meant should mate his with an infinite range, 

And inherit 
His power to put life in the darkness and cold? 
O, live and love worthily, bear and be bold ! 
Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange ! 

IV. 
ALONG THE BEACH. 

I. 

I WILL be quiet and talk with you 

And reason why you are wrong. 
You wanted my love — is that much true } 
And so I did love, so I do : 

What has come of it all along } 

II. 

I took you — how could I otherwise? 

For a world to me, and more ; 
For all, love greatens and glorifies 
Till God's a-glow, to the loving eyes, 

In what was mere earth before. 

III. 

Yes, earth — yes, mere ignoble earth ! 

Now do I misstate, mistake ? 
Do I wrong your weakness and call it w^orth ? 
Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, 

Seal my sense up for your sake ? 

IV. 

O Love, Love, no, Love ! not so, indeed 

You were just weak earth, I knew : 
With much in you waste, with many a weed. 
And plenty of passions run to seed. 

But a little good grain too. 

V. 

And such as you were, I took you for mine : 

Did not you find me yours, 
To watch the olive and wait the vine, 
And wonder when rivers of oil and wine 

Would flow\ as the Book assures ? 



James Lee s Wife. 299 

VI. 

Well, and if none of these good things came, 

What did the failure prove? 
The man was my whole world, all the same, 
With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame, 

And, either or both, to love. 

VII. 

Yet this turns now to a fault — there ! there ! 

That I do love, watch too long, 
And wait too well, and weary and wear ; 
And 'tis all an old story, and my despair 

Fit subject for some new song : 

VIII. 

** How the light, light love, he has wings to fly 

At suspicion of a bond : 
My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by, 
Which will turn up next in a laughing eye. 

And why should you look beyond .^ " 

V. 

ON THE CLIFF. 
I. 

I LEANED on the turf, 

I looked at a rock 

Left dry by the surf ; 

For the turf, to call it grass were to mock : 

Dead to the roots, so deep was done 

The work of the summer sun. 

II. 

And the rock lay flat 

As an anvil's face : 

No iron like that ! 

Baked dry ; of a weed, of a shell, no trace : 

Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, 

Death's altar by the lone shore. 

III. 
On the turf, sprang gay 
With his films of blue, 
No cricket, Fll say, 

But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too, 
The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, 
Real fairy, with wings all right, 



300 



James Lee s Wife. 



IV. 

On the rock, they scorch 
Like a drop of fire 
From a brandished torch, 
Fall tv/o red fans of a butter- 
fly- 
No turf, no rock, — in their 

ugly stead. 
See, wonderful blue and red ! 

V. 

Is it not so 

With the minds of men ? 

The level and low. 

The burnt and bare, in them- 
selves ; but then 

With such a blue and red 
grace, not theirs, 

Love settling unawares ! 

VL 

READING A BOOK, UNDER 
THE CLIFF. 

I. 

" Still ailing. Wind ? Wilt 
be appeased or no ? 
Which needs the other's office, thou or I ? 
Dost want to be disburthened of a Vv^oe, 

And can, in truth, my voice untie 
Its links, and let it go ? 

II. 

-Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be 

righted, -^ it u \ 

Intrusting thus thv cause to me ? Forbear . 

No tongue can mend such pleadings ; faith, requited 
With falsehood,— love, at last aware 

Of scorn,— hopes, early bHghted,— 

III. 

"We have them ; but I know not any tone 

So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow : 
Dost think men would go mad without a moan. 

If they knew any way to borrow 
A pathos like thy own ? 




Reading a book, under the cliff. 



James Lee's Wife, 301 



IV. 

*' Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs ? The one 
So long escaping from h'ps starved and blue, 

That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun 
Stretches her length ; her foot comes through 

The straw she shivers on ; 

V. 

" You had not thought she was so tall : and spent, 
Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut 

Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent 
The clammy palm ; then all is mute : 

That way, the spirit went. 

VI. 

" Or wouldst thou rather that I understand 
Thy will to help me ?— like the dog I found 

Once, pacing sad this solitary strand, 

Who would not take my food, poor hound, 

But whined, and licked my hand." 

VII. 
All this, and more, comes from some young man's pride 

Of power to see,— in failure and mistake. 
Relinquishment, disgrace on every side, — 

Merely examples for his sake, 
Helps to his path untried : 

VIII. 
Instances he must — simply recognize } 

Oh, more than so !— must, with a learner's zeal, 
Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize. 

By added touches that reveal 
The god in babe's disguise. 

IX. 

Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest ! 

Himself the undefeated that shall be : 
Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test,— 

His triumph, in eternity 
Too plainly manifest X 

X. 

Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind 
Means in its moaning — by the happy prompt 

Instinctive way of youth, I mean ; for kind 
Calm years, exnctino- their accompt 

Of pain, mature the mind ; 



302 James Lee's Wife. 

XI. 

And some midsummer morning, at the lull 
Just about daybreak, as he looks across 

A sparkling foreign country, wonderful 
To the sea's ^(\^^ for gloom and gloss, 

Next minute must annul, — 

XII. 

Then, when the wind begins among the vines, 
So low, so low, what shall it say but this ? 

*' Here is the change beginning, here the lines 
Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss 

The limit time assigns." 

XIII. 

Nothing can be as it has been before ; 

Better, so call it, only not the same. 
To draw one beauty into our hearts' core, 

And keep it changeless ! such our claim ; 
So answ^ered, — Never more ! 

XIV. 

Simple } Why this is the old woe o' the world ; 

Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die. 
Rise with it, then ! Rejoice that man is hurled 

Erom change to change unceasingly, 
His soul's wings never furled ! 

XV. 

That's a new question ; still replies the fact, 
Nothing endures : the wind moans, saying so ; 

We moan in acquiescence : there's life's pact, 
Perhaps probation — do / know } 

God does : endure his act ! 

XVI. 

Only, for man, how bitter not to grave 

On his soul's hands' palms one fair good wise thing 
Just as he grasped it ! For himself, death's wave ; 

While time first washes — ah, the sting! — 
O'er all he'd sink to save. 

vn. 

AMONG THE ROCKS. 

I. 

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, 
This autumn morning- ! How he sets his bones 



James Lees Wife. 3^3 



To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet 
For the ripple to run over in its mirth ; 

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones 
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. 

II. 

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; 

Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your love. 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you : 

Make the low nature better by your throes ! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above ! 

VIIL 

BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD. 

I. 

" As like as a Hand to another Hand ! " 

Whoever said that foolish thing. 
Could not have studied to understand 
The counsels of God in fashioning. 
Out of the infinite love of his heart. 
This Hand, whose beauty 1 praise, apart 
From the world of wonder left to praise, 
If I tried to learn the other ways 
Of love, in its skill, or love, in its power. 
" As like as a Hand to another Hand : " 
Who said that, never took his stand, 
Found and followed, like me, an hour, 
The beauty in this, — how free, how fine 
To fear, almost, — of the limit-line ! 
As I looked at this, and learned and drew, 

Drew and learned, and looked again. 
While fast the happy minutes flew^, 
Its beauty mounted into my brain, 
And a fancy seized me : I was fain 
To efface my w^ork, begin anew, 
Kiss what before I only drew ; 
Ay, laying the red chalk 'twixt my lips, 
With soul to help if the mere lips failed, 
I kissed all right where the drawing ailed, 
Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips 
Still from one's soulless finger-tips. 

II. 
'Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing. 

From Hand live once, dead long ago : 



304 James Lees Wife, 



Princess-like it wears the ring 

To fancy's eye, by wiiich we know 
Tiiat here at length a master found 

His match, a proud lone soul its mate, 
As soaring genius sank to ground 

And pencil could not emulate 
The beauty in this, — how free, how fine 
To fear almost ! — of the limit-line. 
Long ago the god, like me 
The worm, learned, each in our degree : 
Looked and loved, learned and drew, 

Drew and learned and loved again, 
While fast the happy minutes flew. 

Till beauty mounted into his brain 
And on the finger which outvied 

His art he placed the ring that's there, 
Still by fancy's eye descried, 

In token of a marriage rare : 
For him on earth, his art's despair. 
For him in heaven, his soul's fit bride, 

III. 
Little girl with the poor coarse hand 

I turned from to a cold clay cast — ■ 
I have my lesson, understand 

The worth of flesh and blood at last ! 
Nothing but beautv in a Hand? 

Because he could not change the hue, 

Mend the lines and make them true 
To this which met his soul's demand, — 

Would Da Vinci turn from you ? 
I hear him laugh my woes to scorn — 
*' The fool forsooth is all forlorn 
Because the beauty, she thinks best, 
Live 1 long ago or was never born, — 
Because no beauty bears the test 
In this rough peasant Hand ! Confessed 
' Art is null and study \oid ! ' 
So sayest thou ? So said not I, 
Who threw the faulty pencil by, 
And years instead of hours employed, 
Learning the veritable use 
Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath 
Lines and hue of the outer sheath. 
If haj)j)ily I might reproc'uce 
One motive of the mechanism, 
Flesh and bone and nerve that make 



James Lee s Wife. 3^5 



The poorest coarsest human hand 

An object worthy to be scanned 

A whole hfe long- for their sole sake. 

Shall earth and the cramped moment-space 

Yield the heavenly crowning grace ? 

Now the parts and then the whole ! 

Who art thou, with stinted soul 

And stunted body, thus to cry 

' 1 love,— shall that be life's strait dole ? 

I must live beloved or die ? ' 

This peasant hand that spins the wool 

And bakes the bread, why lives it on, 

Poor and coarse with beauty gone,— 

What use survives the beauty ? Fool ! " 

Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand ! 
I have my lesson, shall understand. 

IX. 

ON DECK. 
I. 

There is nothing to remember in me, 

Nothing I ever said with a grace. 
Nothing I did that you care to see, 

Nothing I was that deserves a place 
In your mind, now I leave you, set you free. 

II. 
Conceded ! In turn, conce(le to me, 

Such things have been as'a mutual flame. 
Your soul's locked fast ; but, love for a key, 

You might let it loose, till I grew the same 
In your eyes, as in mine you stand : strange plea ! 

III. 
For then, then, what would it matter to me 

That I was the harsh, ill-favored one ? 
We both should be like as pea and pea ; 

It \vas ever so since the world begun : 
So, let me proceed with my reverie. 

IV. 

How strange it were if you had all me, 
As I have all you in my heart and brain, 

You, whose least word broughl gloom or glee, 
Who never lifted the hand in vain 

Will hold mine yet, from over the sea I 



3o6 Respectability, 



Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, 
Rose hke your own face present now, 

With eyes as clear in their due degree, 

Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, 

Till you saw yourself, while you cried " 'Tis She ! " 

VI. 

Well, you may, you must, set down to me 
Love that was life, life that was love ; 

A tenure of breath at your lips' decree, 

A passion to stand as your thoughts approvCj 

A rapture to fall where your foot might be. 

VII. 

But did one touch of such love for me 

Come in a word or a look of yours, 
W' hose words and looks will, circling, flee 

Round me and round while life endures,— 
Could I fancy " As I feel, thus feels He ; " 

VIII. 

Why, fade you might to a thing like me, 

And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, 

Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree, — 

You might turn myself ! — should I know or care, 

When I should be dead of joy, James Lee } 



RESPECTABILITY. 
I, 

Dear, had the world in its caprice 

Deigned toproc.laim " I know you both, 
Have recognized your plighted troth, 

•Am sponsor for you : live in peace !" — 

How many precious months and years 
Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, 
Before we found it out at last, 

The world, and what it fears. 

II. 

How much of priceless life were spent 
With men that every virtue decks, 
And women models of their sex. 

Society's true ornament, — 

Ere we dared wander, nights like this. 



Dis A liter Visum j or, Le Byron dc 7ios jours. 307 

Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, 
And feel the Boulevart break again 
To warmth and light and bliss ? 

in. 
I know ! the world proscribes not love ; 

Allows my linger to caress 

Your lips' contour and downiness, 
Provided it supply a glove. 
The world's good word ! — the Institute ! 

Guizot receives Montalembert ! 

Eh ? Down the court three lampions flare : 
Put forward your best foot ! 

DtS ALITER VISUM ; OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS. 

I. 
Stop, let me have the truth of that ! 

Is that all true } I say, the day ^ 

Ten years ago when both of us 

Met on a morning, friends — as thus 
We meet this evening, friends or what ? — 

II. 
Did you — because I took your arm 

And sillily smiled, " A mass of brass 
That sea looks, blazing underneath ! " 

While up the cliff-road edged with heath, 
We took the turns nor came to harm — 

III. 

Did you consider " Now makes twice 

That I have seen her, walked and talked 

W^ith this poor pretty thoughtful thing, 
Whose worth I weigh : she tries to sing ; 

Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice ; 

IV. 

** Reads verse and thinks she understands; 

Loves all, at any rate, that's great, 
Good, beautiful ; but much as we 

Down at the bath-house love the sea, 
Who breathe its salt and bruise its sands : 

V. 

** While ... do but follow^ the fishing-gull 
That flaps and floats from wave to cave ! 



3c8 Dis Aliier Visum ; or, Le Byron de nos Jours, 

There's the sea-lover, fair my friend ! 

What then ? Be patient, mark and mend ! 
Had you the making of your skull ? " 

VI. 

And did you, when we faced the church 
With spire and sad slate roof, aloof 

From human fellowshij) so far, 

Where a few graveyard crosses are. 

And garlands for the swallows* perch, — 

VII. 
Did you determine as we stepped 

O'er the low stone fence, " Let me get 
Her for myself, and what's the earth 

With all its ait, verse, music, worth — 
Compared with love, found, gained, and kept ? 

VJII. 

" Schumann's our music-maker now ; 

Has his march-movement youth and mouth ? 
Ingres's the modern man that paints ; 

Which will lean on me, of his saints ? 
Heine for songs ; for kisses, how ? " 

IX. 

And did you, when we entered, reached 

The votive friiL^ate, soft aloft 
Riding on air this hunch'ed }ears, 

Safe smiling at old hopes and fears, — 
Did you draw profit while she preached ? 

X. 

Resolving, " Fools we wise men grow ! 

Yes, I could easily blurt out curt 
Some question that might find reply 

As prompt in her stoj)ped lips, dropped eye 
And rush of red to cheek and brow : 

XI. 

"• Thus were a match made, sure and fast, 

'Mid the blue weed-tlowers round the mound 

Where, issuing, we shall stand and stay 
For one more look at baths and bay, 

Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church last — 

XII. 

** A match 'twixt me, bent, wigged, and lamed, 
Famous, however, for verse and worse. 



Dis Aliter Visum ; or, Le Byron de nos Jours. 3^9 



Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair 

When gout and glory seat me there, 
So, one whose love-freaks pass unblamed,— 

XIII. 
"And this young beauty, round and sound 

As a mountain-apple, youth and truth 
With loves and doves, at all events 

With money in the Three per Cents; 
Whose choice of me would seem profound : — 

XIV. 

" She might take me as I take her. 

Perfect the hour would pass, alas ! 
Climb high, love high, what matter ? Still, 

Feet, feeHngs, must descend the hill : 
An hour's perfection can't recur. 

XV. 

"Then follows Paris and full time 

For both to reason : 'Thus with us,' 
She'll sigh, 'Thus girls give body and soul 

At first word, think they gain the goal, 
When 'tis the starting-place they climb ! 

XVI. 
" ' My friend makes verse and gets renown ; 

Have they all fifty years, his peers ? 
He knows the world, firm, quiet, and gay ; 

Boys will become as much one day : 
They're fools; he cheats, with beard less brown. 

XVII. 

*' * For boys say, Love me or I die ! 

He did not say, l^he truth is, youth 
I want, who am old and hiow too much ; 

Fd catch youth : lend me si,^ht and touch ! 
Drop hearfs blood where lifes wheels grate dry! ' 

XVIII. 
^' While I should make rejoinder"— (then 

It was, no doubt, you ceased that least 
Light pressure of my arm in yours) 

" ' I can conceive of cheaper cures 
For a yawning-fit o'er books and men. 

XIX. 

" ' What ? All I am, was, and might be, 

All, books taught, art brought, life's whole strife, 



310 Dis Aliter Visum j or, Le Byron de nos JourL 



Painful results since precious, just 

Were fitly exchanged, in wise disgust, 
For two cheeks freshened by youth and sea ? 

XX. 

** * All for a nosegay ! — what came first ; 

With fields in flower, untried each side ; 
I rally, need my books and men, 

And find a nosegay : ' drop it, then. 
No match yet made for best or w^orst ! '* 

XXI. 

That ended me. You judged the porch 

We left by, Norman ; took our look 
At sea and sky ; wondered so few 

Find out the place for air and view ; 
Remarked the sun began to scorch ; 

XXII. 

Descended, soon regained the baths. 

And then, good-by ! Years ten since then ! 

Ten years ! We meet : you tell me, now% 
By a windows-seat for that cliff-brow, 

On carpet-stripes for those sand-paths. 

XXIII. 

Now I may speak : you fool, for all 

Your lore! W^HO made things plain in vain ? 
What was the sea for? What, the gray 

Sad church, that solitary day, 
Crosses and grraves and sw^allows' call.'^ 



XXIV. 

Was there naught better than to enjoy? 
No feat which; done, would make 
time break. 
And let us pent-up creatures through 

Into eternity, our due? 
No forcing earih teach heaven's em- 
ploy ? 

XXV. 

No wnse beginning, here and now% 
What cannot grow complete (earth's 
feat) 
And heaven must finish, there and 
then ? 
No tasting earth's true food for men, 
Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet ? 




Crosses 



AND GRAVES. 



Confessions. 311 



XXVI. 

No grasping at love, gaining a share 

O' the sole spark from God's life at strife 

With death, so, sure of range above 
The limits here ? For us and love, 

Failure ; but, when God fails, despair. 

XXVII. 

This you call wisdom '^ Thus you add 

Good unto good again, in \ain } 
You loved, with body worn and weak ; 

I loved, with faculties to seek : 
Were both loves worthless since ill-clad } 

XXVIII. 

Let the mere star-fish in his vault 
Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed, 

Rose-jacynth to the finger-tips : 

He, whole in body and soul, outstrips 

Man, found with either in default. 

XXIX. 

But what's whole, can increase no more, 
Is dwarfed and dies, since here's its s{)here. 

The Devil laughed at you in his sleeve ! 
You knew not ? That I well believe ; 

Or you had saved two souls : nay, four. 

XXX. 

For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist, 
Ankl-e or something. " Pooh," cry you ? 

At any rate she danced, all say. 
Vilely: her vogue has had its day. 

Here comes my husband from his whist. 

CONFESSIONS. 

I. 

What is he buzzing in my ears? 

" Now that I come to die. 
Do I view the world as a vale of tears } ' 

Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 

II. 

What I viewed there once, v/hat I view again 

Where the physic bottles stand 
On the table's ^^Vg^, — is a suburb lane, 

With a wall to my bedside hand, 



312 The House Jwlder. 



III. 
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 

From a house you could descry 
O'er the gdrden-wall : is the curtain blue 

Or green to a healthy eye ? 

IV. 

To mine, it serves for the old June weather 

Blue above lane and wall ; 
And that farthest bottle labeled "Ether" 

Is the house o'er-topping all. 

V. 
At a terrace, son^ewhat near the stopper, 

There watched for me one June, 
A girl : I know, sir, it's improper, 

My poor mind's out of tune. 

VI. 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 

Close by the side, to dodge 
Eyes in the house, two eyes except : 

They styled their house " The Lodge." 

VII, 
What right had a lounger up their lane? 

But, by creeping very close, 
With the good wall's help, — their eyes might strain 

And stretch themselves to Oes, 

VIII. 
Yet never catch her and me together, 

As she left the attic, there, 
By the rim of the bottle labeled " Ether," 

And stole from stair to stair, 

IX. 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 

We loved, sir— used to meet : 
How sad and bad and mad it was — 

But then, how it was sweet ! 

THE HOUSEHOLDER. 

I. 
Savage I w^as, sitting in my house, late, lone : 

Dreary, wxary with the long day's work: 
He^id of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone : 

Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk ; 



Tray. 313 

When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry, 

Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we ! — 

**What, and is it really you again? " quoih I : 
** 1 again, what else did you expect," quoth She. 

II. 
"Never mind, hie away from this old house — 

Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame! 
Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse ! 

Let them — every devil of the night — lay claim, 
Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me ! Good-by ! 

God be their guard from disturbance at their glee, 
Till, crash, comes down the carcass in a heap ! " quoth I : 

*' Nay, but there's a decency required ! " quoth She. 

III. 

'* Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights ! 

All the neig-hbor-talk with man and maid — such men ! 
All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, window-sights: 

All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof ; and then, 
All the fancies . . . Who were they had leave, dared try 

Darker arts that almost struck despair in me? 
If you knew but how I dwell down heie !" quoth I : 

'* And was 1 so better off up there? " quoth She. 

IV. 

" Help and get it over! Re-ii7iifed to his wife 

(How draw up the })aper lets the parish-people know!) 
LJes M. or N., departed from this life, 

Day the this or that, uioiith and year the so and so, 
What i' the way of final flourish ? Prose, verse ? Try ! 

Affliction sore long time he bore, or, what is it to be ? 
Till God did please to grant him ease. Do end !" quoth I : 

" I end with — Love is all and Death is naught ! " quoth She. 

TRAY. 

Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst 
Of soul, ye bards ! 

Quoth Bard the first : 
*' Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don 
His helm and eke his habergeon "... 
Sir Olaf and his bard ! — 

** That sin-scathed brow " (quoth Bard the second), 
'* That eye wide 0])e as though Fate beckoned 
My hero to some steep, beneath 



314 Tray. 

Which precipice smiled tempting death " . . 
You too without your host have reckoned ! 

" A beggar-child " (let's hear this third !) 

" Sat on a quay's ^dg^ : like a bird 

Sang to herself at careless play, 

And fell into the stream. ' Dismay ! 

Help, you the standers-by ! ' None stirrred. 

"By-standers reason, think of wi\'es 
And children ere they risk their lives. 
Over the balustrade has bounced 
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
Plumb on the prize. * How w^ell he dives ! 




Trotted my hero off. 

" * Up he comes wqth the child, see, tight 
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite 
A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet ! 
Good dog ! What, off again ? There's yet 
Another child to save ? All right ! 

" ' How strange we saw no other fall ! 
It's instinct in the animal. 
Good dog ! But he's a long while under : 
If he got drowned I should not wonder — 
Strong current, that against the wall ! 

*" Here he comes, holds in mouth this time 

— What may the thing be ? Well, that's prime ! 

Now, did you ever? Reason reigns 

In man alone, since all Tray's pains 

Have fished — the child's doll from the slime! ' 

And so, amid the laughter gay, 

Trotted my hero off, — old Tray,-> 



Cavalier Tufies, 315 



Till somebody, prerogatived 

With reason, reasoned : * Why he dived, 

His brain would show us, 1 should say. 

" ' John, go and catch — or, if needs be, 

Purchase that animal for me ! 

By vivisection, at expense 

Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, 

How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see ! ' " 

CAVALIER TUNES. 
I. 

MARCHING ALONG. 
I. 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, 

Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 

II. 

God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles 

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! 

Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 

Till you're — 

{Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted geiitlemen, singi7ig this song. 

III. 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well ! 
England, good cheer! Rupert is near ! 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here. 

{Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singi?ig this song. 

IV. 

Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles ! 
Hold by the right, you double your might : 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, 
{Chorus) March we along ^ fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 



3i6 Cavalier Tu7ies. 



II. 

GIVE A ROUSE. 
I. 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now } 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 

II. 
Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
WHio helped me to gold that I spent since? 
W^ho found me in wine you drank once? 
{Chorus) King Charles', and who'll do him right now? 

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 

Give a roicse : heres, iii helVs despite 7iow, 

King Charles ! 

III. 
To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 
{Chorus) King Charles, a?id who'll do him right now? 

King Charles, aiid who' s ripe for fight now? 

Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite now, 

King Charles I 

III. 

BOOT AND SADDLE. 
I. 
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, 

{Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I 

II. 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say ; 
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray, 
" God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay — 
{Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, aiid away I " 

III. 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round-heads' array : 



Before, 



31 





%i. 



^' 



-^'-€) 




M 



Boot, saddle, to horse, and away 



^vr 



Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
{Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away f 

IV. 

Who? My wife Gertrude: that, honest and gay 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay! 
I've better counselors ; what counsel they? 
{Chorus) Boot, saddle^ to horse, and away ! " 



BEFORE. 



I. 



Let them fight it out, friend ! things have gone too far. 
God must judge the couple: leave them as they are 
— Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory, 
And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story ! 



II 



Why, you would not bid men. sunk in such a slough, 
Strike no arm out farther, stick and stink as now, 



3 1 8 Before. 

Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment, 
Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment ? 

III. 
Who's the culprit of them ? How must he conceive 
God — the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, 
" 'Tis but decent to profess one's self beneath her: 
Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either: " 

IV. 
Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes ; 
Then go live his life out ! Life will try his nerves, 
When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure, 
And the earth keeps up her terrible composure. 

V. 

Let Inm pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose, 

Pluck their fi'uits when grape-trees graze him as he goes! 

For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden, 

With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden. 

VI. 
What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side, 
A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide ? 
When will come an end to all the mock obeisance, 
And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance } 

VII. 

So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man } 
Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can ! 
He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven, 
Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven ! 

VIII. 
All or nothing, stake it ! Trusts he God or no ? 
Thus far and no farther ? farther } be it so ! 
Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses, 
Sage provisos, sub-intents, and saving-clauses ! 

IX. 

Ah, ** forgive " you bid him ? While God's champion lives, 
Wrong shall be resisted : dead, why, he forgives. 
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him : 
Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him. 

X. 

Once more — Will the wronger, at this last of all. 
Dare to say, " I did wrong," rising in his fall .^ 
No ? — Let go, then ! Both the fighters to their places ! 
While I count three, step you back as many paces ! 



Herve Riel. 3 1 9 



AFTER. 

Take the cloak from his face, and at first 
Let the corpse do its worst ! 

How hehes in his rights of a man. 

Death has done all death can. 
And, absorbed in the new life he leads, 

He recks not, he heeds 
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance : both strike 

On his senses alike, 
And are lost in the solemn and strange 

Surprise of the change. 

Ha, what avails death to erase 

His offense, my disgrace.^ 
I would we were boys as of old 

In the field, by the fold : 
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn 

Were so easily borne ! 

I stand here now, he lies in his place: 
Cover the face ! 



HERVE RIEL. 

I. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred and ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the Frewch, — woe to France ! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, 

With the English fleet in view. 

n. 
'Twas the squadron that escaped, w4th the victor in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signaled to the place 
" Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker 

still. 
Here's the English can and will ! " 

III. 
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board ; 
'* Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass } " 
laughed they : 



320 Herve RieL 



" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred 

and scored, 
Shall the ' Formidable ' here with her twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way. 
Trust \o enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with fiow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

IV. 
Then was called a council straight, 
Brief and bitter the debate : 
'' Here's the English at our heels ; would you have them take 

in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) ' 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 

Let the Captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 

V. • 
" Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these 
—A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate— first, second, third ? 

No such man of mark and meet 

W^ith his betters to compete ! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel, the Croisickese. 

VI. 

And, ** What mockery or malice have we here ? " cries Herve 
Riel: 
'' Are you mad, you iNLalouins ? Are you cowards, fools, or 
rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, 

tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 

'Twixt the offing here and 'Greve where 'the river disem- 
bogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the King's for? 
Morn and eve, night nnd dav, 



Herve Riel Z^i 



Have 1 piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored 'fast at the foot of Sohdor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? 

That were worse than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! 
Sirs, beheve me there's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear. 
Make the others follow mine. 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know 
well. 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound ; 
And if one ship misbehave, 

— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, Fve nothing but my life, — here's my head ! " cries 
Herve Riel. 

VII. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " cried 
its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace I 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's 
profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last, 

And just as Herve Riel hollas '* Anchor! "—sure as fate, 
Up the English come, too late ! 

VIII. 

So, the storm subsides to calm : 

They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 



^2 2 Herve RieL 



** Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee ! " 
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's coun- 
tenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is Paradise for Hell ! 
Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing!" 
What a shout, and all one word, 

*' Herve Riel ! " 
As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In tlie frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 

IX. 

Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end. 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's 
not Damfreville." 

X. 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say. 
Since on board the duty's done. 
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
but a run ? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 
, Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 

Aurore ! " 
That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 



In a Balcony, 3^3 



XI. 

Name and deed alike are lost : 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single hshing-smack, 
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore 
the bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
So for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle 
Aurore ! 



IN A BALCONY. 
Constance and Norbert. 

Nor. Now ! 

Con. Not now ! 

Nor. Give me them again, those 

hands — 
Put them upon my forehead, how^ it throbs ! 
Press them before my eyes, the fire comes through ! 
You crudest, you dearest in the world, 
Let me ! The Queen must grant whate'er I ask — 
How can I gain you and not ask the Queen ? 
There she stays waiting for me, here stand you ; 
Some time or other this was to be asked ; 
Now^ is the one time — what I ask, I gain : 
Let me ask now, Love ! 

Con. Do, and ruin us! 

Nor. Let it be now, Love! All my soul breaks forth. 
How I do love you ! Give my love its way ! 
A man can have but one life and one death. 
One heaven, one hell. Let me fulfill my fate — 
Grant me my heaven now ! Let me know you mine, 
Prove you mine, write my name upon your brow. 
Hold you and have you, and then die away. 
If God please, with coinpletion in my soul ! 

Con. I am not yours then } How content this man ! 
I am not his — who change into himself, 



3^4 ^^ ^ Balcony, 



Have passed into his heart and beat its beats, 

Who give my hands to hinn, my eyes, my hair. 

Give all that was of me away to him — 

So well, that now, my spirit turned his own, 

Takes part with him against the woman here. 

Bids him not stumble at so mere a straw 

As caring that the world be cognizant 

How he loves her and how she worships him. 

You have this woman, not as yet that w^orld. 

Go on, I bid, nor stop to care for me 

By saving what I cease to care about. 

The courtly name and pride of circumstance— 

The name you'll pick up and be cumbered with 

Just for the poor parade's sake, nothing more ; 

Just that the world may slip from under you — 

Just that the world may cry " So much for him — 

The man predestined to the heap of crowns ; 

There goes his chance of winning one, at least! " 

Nor. The world ! 

Con, You love it ! Love me quite as well, 

And see if I shall pray for this in vain ! 
Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks ? 

Nor, You pray for — what, in vain ? 

Con. Oh my heart's heart, 

How 1 do love you, Norbert ! That is right : 
But listen, or I take my hands away! 
You say, " Let it be now : " you would go now 
And tell the Queen, perhaps six steps from us, 
You love me — so you do, thank God ! 

Nor. Thank God ! 

Co7i. Yes, Norbert, — but you fain would tell your love, 
And, what succeeds the telling, ask of her 
My hand. Now take this rose and look at it, 
Listening to me. You are the minister, 
The Queen's first favorite, nor without a cause. 
To-night completes your wonderful year's-work 
(This palace-feast is held to celebrate) 
Made memorable by her life's success, 
The junction of two crowns, on her sole head. 
Her house had only dreamed of anciently: 
That this mere dream is grown a stable truth. 
To-night's feast makes authentic. Whose the praise? 
Whose genius, patience, energy, achieved 
What turned the many heads and broke the hearts .^^ 
You are the fate, your minute's in the heaven. 
Next comes the Queen's turn. *' Name your own re- 
w^ard ! *' 




Now TAKE THIS ROSE AND LOOK AT IT. 



326 In a Balcony. 



With leave to clinch the past, chain the to-come, 

Put out an arm and touch and take the sun 

And fix it ever full-faced on your earth, 

Possess yourself supremely of her life, — 

You choose the single thing she will not grant; 

Nay, very declaration of which choice 

Will turn the scale and neutralize your work : 

At best she w-ill forgive you, if she can. 

You think I'll let you choose — her cousin's hand ? 

Nor. Wait. First, do you retain your old belief 
The Queen is generous, — nay, is just? 

Con. There, there, 

So men make women love them, while they know 
No more of women's hearts than . . . look you here, 
You that are just and generous beside, 
Make it your own case ! For example now, 
ril say — 1 let you kiss me, hold my hands — 
Why? do you know^ why? I'll instruct you, then — 
The kiss, because you have a name at court, 
This hand and this, that you may shut in each 
A jewel, if you please to pick up such. 
That's horrible ? Apply it to the Queen — 
Suppose I am the Queen to whom you speak. 
'* I was a nameless man ; you needed me : 
Why did I proffer you my aid ? there stood 
A certain pretty cousin at your side. 
Why did I make such common cause with you ? 
Access to her had not been easy else. 
You give my labors here abundant praise ? 
'Faith, labor, w^hich she overlooked, grew play. 
How shall your gratitude discharge itself? 
Give me her hand ! " 

Nor. And still I urge the same. 

Is the Queen just ? just— generous or no! 

Con. Yes, just. You love a rose ; no harm in that : 
But W'as it for the rose's sake or mine 
You put it in your bosom ? mine, you said — 
Then, mine you still must say or else be false. 
You told the Queen you served her for herself; 
If so, to serve her was to serve yourself. 
She thinks, for all your unbelieving face ! 
I know her. In the hall, six steps from us, 
One sees the twenty pictures ; there's a life 
Better than life, and yet no life at all. 
Conceive her born in such a magic dome, 
Pictures all round her ! why, she sees the world, 
Can recognize its given things and facts. 



/// a Balcony. 327 



The fight of giants or the feast of gocis, 

Sages in senate, beauties at the bath, 

Chases and battles, the whole earth's display, 

Landscape and sea-piece, down to flowers and fruit- 

And who shall question that she knows them all, 

In better semblance than the things outside ? 

Yet bring into the silent gallery 

Some live thing to contrast in breath and blood, 

Some lion, with the painted lion there — 

You think she'll understand composedly? 

— Say, " That's his fellow in the hunting-piece 




Beauties at the bath. 

Yonder, r\fce turned to praise a hundred times " ? 

Not so. Her knowledge of our actual earth, 

Its hopes and fears, concerns and syxmpathies. 

Must be too far, too mediate, too unreal. 

The real exists for us outside, not her : 

How should it, wnth that life in these four walls, 

That father and that mother, first to last 

No father and no mother — friends, a heap. 

Lovers, no lack — a husband in due time, 

And every one of them alike a lie ! 

Things painted by a Rubens out of naught 

Into what kindness, friendship, love should be ; 

All better, all more grandiose than life. 

Only no life ; mere cloth and surface-paint. 

You feel, while you admire. How should she feel } 

Yet now that she has stood thus fifty years 

The sole spectator in that gallery. 

You think to bring this warm real struggling love 

In to her of a sudden, and suppose 



328 In a Balcony. 



She'll keep her state untroubled? Here's the truth : 

She'll apprehend truth's value at a glance, 

Prefer it to the pictured loyalty? 

You only have to say " So men are made, 

For this they act ; the thing has many names. 

But this the right one : and now, Queen, be just ! " 

Your life slips bacic ; you lose her at the word : 

You do not even for amends gain me. 

He will not understand ! O Norbert, Norbert ! 

Do you not understand ? 

Nor. The Queen's the Queen. 

I am myself — no picture, but alive 
In every nerve and every muscle, here 
At the palace-window o'er the people's street, 
As she in the gallery where the pictures glow : 
The good of life is precious to us botli. 
She cannot love ; what do I want with rule ? 
When first I saw your face a year ago 
I knew my life's good, my soul heard one voice — 
" The woman yonder, there's no use of life 
But just to obtain her ! heap earth's woes in one 
And bear them — make a pile of all earth's joys 
And spurn" them, as they help or help not this ; 
Only, obtain her ! "—how was it to be ? 
I found you were the cousin of the Queen ; 
I must then serve the Queen to get to you. 
No other way. Suppose there had been one, 
And I, by saying prayers to some whit^ star 
With ])romise of my body and my soul, 
Might gain you, — should I pray the star or no ? 
Instead, there was the Queen to serve ! I served, 
Helped, did what other servants failed to do. 
Neither she sought nor I declared my end. 
Her good is hers, my recompense be mine, 
I therefore name you as that recompense. 
She dreamed that such a thing could never be ? 
Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause 
In love of power, high fame, pure loyalty? 
Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives 
Chasing such shades. Then, I've a fancy too ; 
I worked because I want you with my soul : 
I therefore ask your hand. Let it be now ! 

Con. Had I not loved you from the very first, 
Were I not yours, could we not steal out thus 
So wickedly, so wildly, and so well. 
You might become impatient. What's conceived 
Of us without here, by the folks within ? 



In a Balcony. 329 



Where are you now ? immersed in cares of state. 

Where am I now ? — intent on festal robes — 

We two, embracing under death's spread hand ! 

What was this thought for, what that scruple of yours 

Which broke the council up? — to bring about 

One minute's meeting in the corridor ! 

And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, 

Com plots inscrutable, deep telegraphs. 

Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, 

" Does she know ? does she not know ? saved or lost ? " 

A year of this compression's ecstasy 

All goes for nothing ! you would give this up 

For the old way, the open way, the world's, 

His way who beats, and his who sells his wife ! 

What tempts you ? — their notorious happiness, 

That you are ashamed of ours? The best you'll gain 

Will be — the Queen grants all that you require. 

Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you 

And me at once, and gives us ample leave 

To live like our five hundred happy friends. 

The world will show us with officious hand 

Our chamber-entry and stand sentinel, 

Where we so oft have stolen across its traps ! 

Get the world's warrant, ring the falcons' feet, 

And make it duty to be bold and swift, 

Which long ago was nature. Have it so ! 

We never hawked by rights till flung from fist ? 

Oh, the man's thought ! no woman's such a fool. 

No7\ Yes, the man's thought and my thought, which 
is more — 
One made to love you, let the world take note ! 
Have I done worthy work? be love's the praise, 
Though hampered by restrictions, barred against 
By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies ! 
Set free my love, and see what love can do 
Shown in my life — what work will spring from that! 
The world is used to have its business done 
On other grounds, find great effects produced 
For power's sake, fame's sake, motives in men's mouth. 
So, good : but let my low ground shame their high ! 
Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true ! 
And love's the truth of mine. Time prove the rest I 
I choose to wear you stamped all over me. 
Your name upon my forehead and my breast. 
You, from the sword's blade to the ribbon's ^(\'g^, 
That men may see, all over, you in me — 
That pale loves may die out of their pretense 



^^o In a Balcony. 



In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. 

Permit this, Constance ! Love has been so long 

Subdued in me, eating me through and through, 

That now 'tis all of me and must have way. 

Think of my work, that chaos of intrigues, 

Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays. 

That long endeavor, earnest, patient, slow, 

Trembling at last to its assured result — 

Then think of this revulsion ! I resume 

Life afte. death (it is no less than life, 

After such long unlovely laboring days). 

And liberate to beauty life's great need 

O' the beautiful, which, while it prompted work. 

Suppressed itself erewhile. This eve's the time, 

This eve intense with yon first trembling star 

We seem to pant and reach ; scarce aught between 

The earth that rises and the heaven that bends : 

All nature self-al)andoned, every tree 

Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts 

And fixed so, every flower and every weed, 

No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat ; 

All under God, each measured by itself. 

These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct, 

The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed, 

The Muse forever wedded to her lyre, 

The Nymph to her fawn, the Silence to her rose : 

See God's approval on his universe ! 

Let us do so — aspire to live as these 

In harmony wnth truth, ourselves being true ! 

Take the first way, and let the second come ! 

My first is to possess myself of you ; 

The music sets the march-step — forward, then ! 

And there's the Queen, I go to claim you of. 

The world to witness, wonder, and applaud. 

Our flower of life breaks open. No delay ! 

Co?i. And so shall we be ruined both of us. 
Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone : 
You do not know^ her, were not born to it. 
To feel what she can see or cannot see. 
Love, she is generous, — ay, despite your smile, 
Generous as you are : for, in that thin frame 
Pain-twisted, punctured through and through with cares, 
There lived a lavish soul until it starved 
Debarred all healthy food. Look to the soul — 
Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin 
(The true man's-way) on justice and your rights, 
Exactions and acquittance of the past ! 




The Muse forever wedded to her lyre. 



332 In a Balcony. 



Begins so — see what justice she will deal ! 

We women hate a debt as men a gift, 

Suppose her some poor keeper of a school 

Whose business is to sit through summer months 

And dole out children leave to go and play, 

Herself superior to such lightness — she 

In the arm-chair's state and pedagogic pomp, 

To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside : 

We wonder such a face looks black on us ? 

I do not bid you wake her tenderness 

(That were vain truly — none is left to wake). 

But, let her think her justice is engaged 

To take the shape of tenderness, and mark 

If she'll not coldly pay its warmest debt I 

Does she love me, I ask you ? not a whit : 

Yet, thinking that her justice was engaged 

To help a kinswoman, she took me up, — 

Did more on that bare ground than other loves 

Would do on greater arguments. For me, 

I have no equivalent of such cold kind 

To pay her with, but love alone to give 

If I give anything. I give her love : 

I feel I ought to help her, and I will. 

So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice 

That women hate a debt as men a gift. 

If I were you, I could obtain this grace — 

Could lay the whole I did to love's account, 

Nor yet be very false as courtiers go, — 

Declaring my success was recompense ; 

It would be so, in fact ; what were it else.'^ 

And then, once loose her generosity, — 

Oh, how^ I see it ! then, were I but you 

To turn it, let it seem to move itself. 

And make it offer what I really take. 

Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand, 

Her value as the next thing to the Queen's, — 

Since none love Queens directly, none dare that, 

And a thing's shadow or a name's mere echo 

Sufifices those who miss the name and thing ! 

You pick up just a ribbon she has worn. 

To keep in proof how near her breath you came. 

Say, I'm so near I seem a piece of her — 

Ask for me that way — (oh, you understand) 

You'd find the same gift yielded with a grace. 

Which, if you make the least show to extort . . . 

— You'll see ! and when you have ruined both of us, 

Dissertate on the Queen's ingratitude! 



I?i a Bellamy. 333 



A^or. Then if I turn it that way, you consent? 
'Tis not my way ; I have more hope in truth : 
Still, if you won't have truth — why, this indeed, 
Were scarcely false, as I'd express the sense. 
Will you remain here? 

Con, O best heart of mine. 

How I have loved you ! then you take my way ? 
Are mine as you have been her minister, 
Work out my thought, give it effect for me, 
Paint plain my poor conceit and make it serve ? 
I ow^e that withered w^oman everything, — 
Life, fortune, you, remember ! Take my part — ■ 
Help me to pay her! Stand upon your rights? 
You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you? 
Your rights are mine — you have no rights but mine, 

Nor. Remain here. How you know me ! 

Con. Ah, but still— 

\He breaks from her : sJie remains. Dance ■ 
niitsic from within. 

Enter the OUEEN. 

/■^ 

Queen. Constance? She is here as he said. Speak 
quick ! 
Is it so ? Is it true or false ? One word ? 

Con. True. 

Queen. Mercifulest Mother, thanks to thee ! 

Con, Madam ? 

Queen. I love you, Constance, from my soul. 

Now say once more, with any words you will, 
'Tis true, all true, as true as that I speak. 

Cofi. Why should you doubt it ? 

Queen. Ah, why doubt? why doubt ? 

Dear, make me see it ! Do you see it so? 
None see themselves ; another sees them best. 
You say, *' Why doubt it ? " — you see him and me : 
It is because the Mother has such grace 
That if we had but faith — wherein we fail— 
Whate'er we yearn for would be granted us ; 
How^beit we let our whims prescribe despair. 
Our very fancies thwart and cramp our will, 
And so, accepting life, abjure ourselves. 
Constance, I had abjured the hope of love 
And being loved, as truly as yon palm 
The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot. 

Con. Heaven ! 

Queen. But it was so, Constance, it was so ! 

Men say — or do men say it ? fancies say — 



334 //^ ^ Balcony. 



" Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old. 

Too late — no love for you, too late for love — 

Leave love to girls. Be queen : let Constance love ! " 

One takes the hint — half meets it like a child, 

Ashamed at any feelings that oppose. 

** O love, true, never think of love again ! 

I am a queen : I rule, not love, indeed." 

So it goes on ; so a face grows like this. 

Hair like this hair, poor arms as lean as these, 

Till, — nay, it does not end so I thank God ! 

Con. I cannot understand — 

Queen. The liappier you ! 

Constance, I know not how it is with men : 
For w^omen (I am a woman now like you) 
There is no good of life but love — but love I 
What else looks good, is some shade flung from love; 
Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me, 
Never you cheat yourself one instant ! Love, 
Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest ! 

Constance, how I love you ! 

Con. I love you. 

Queen. I do believe that all is come through you, 

1 took you to my heart to keep it warm 

When the last chance of love seemed dead in me ; 
I thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart. 
Oh, I am very old now, am I not ? 
Not so I it is true and it shall be true ! 

Con. Tell it me : let me judge if true or false. 

Qiteen. Ah, but I fear you ! you will look at me 
And say, ** She's old, she's grown unlovely quite 
Who ne'er was beauteous: men want beauty still." 
Well, so I feared — the curse ! so I felt sure ! 

Con. Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say ? 

Queen. Constance, he came, — the coming was not 
strange — 
Do not I stand and see men come and go ? 
I turned a half-look from my pedestal 
Where I grow marble — *' one young man the more ! 
He will love someone ; that is naught to me : 
What would he with my marble stateliness ? '' 
Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore ; 
The man more gracious, youthful, like a god. 
And I still older, wath less flesh to change — 
We two those dear extremes that long to touch. 
It seemed still harder when he first began 
Absorbed to labor at the state-affairs 
The old way for the old end— interest. 



in a Balcony. 



335 



Oh, 



a thousand beating 
serviceable 



eyes, 



but for your 
love but for 




I TURNED A HALF-LOOK. 



to live \vith 
hearts 

Around you, swift 
hands, 

Professing they've no care 
cause, 

Thought but to help you, 
yourself, 

And you the marble statue all the time 

They praise and point at as preferred to 
life. 

Yet leave for the hrst breathing woman's 
cheek, 

First dancer's, gypsy's, or street bala- 
dine's ! 

Why, how I have ground my teeth to 
hear men's speech 

Stifled for fear it should alarm my ear, 

Their gait subdued lest step should 
startle me, 

Their eyes declined, such queendom to 
respect, 
Their hands alert, such treasure to preserve. 
While not a man of them broke rank and spoke, 
Or wrote me a vulgar letter all of love. 
Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand ! 
There have been moments, if the sentinel 
Lowering his halbert to salute the queen, 
Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees. 
I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. 
Con. Who could have comprehended } 
Queen. Ay, who — who? 

Why, no one, Constance, but this one who did. 
Nor they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps 
It comes too late — would you but tell the truth. 
Con. I wait to tell it. 

Queen. Well, you see, he came, 

Outfaced the others, did a work this year 
Exceeds in value all was ever done, 
You know — it is not I wlio say it — all 
Say it. And so (a secoird pang and worse) 
I grew aware not only of what he did. 
But why so wondrously. Oh, never work 
Like his was done for work's ignoble sake — 
It must have finer aims to lure it on ! 
I felt, I saw, he loved — loved somebody. 
And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know, 



33^ in a Balcony. 



I did believe this wliile 'twas you he loved. 

Con, Me, Madam? 

Quee?i, It did seem to me, your face 

]\Iet him where'er he looked : and whom but you 
Was such a man to love ? It seemed to me, 
You saw he loved you, and approved the love, 
And so you both were in intelligence. 
You could not loiter in the warden, step 
Into this balcony, but I straight was stung- 
And forced to understand. It seemed so true, 
So right, so beautiful, so like you both, 
That all this work should have been done by him 
Not for the vulgar hope of recompense. 
But that at last — suppose, some night like this — 
Borne on to claim his due reward of me, 
He might say, " Give her hand and pay me so." 
And I (O Constance, you shall love me now I) 
I thought, surmounting all the bitterness, 
— '' And he shall have it. I will make her blest. 
My flower of youth, my woman's self that was, 
My happiest woman's self that might have been ! 
These two shall have their joy and leave me here." 
Yes — yes I 

Con. Thanks ! 

Queen. And the word was on my lips 

When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear 
A mere calm statement of his just desire 
For payment of his labor. When — O heaven. 
How can I tell you } cloud was on my eyes 
And thunder in my ears at that first word 
Which told 'twas love of me, of me, did all — 
He loved me — from the first step to the last, 
Loved me ! 

Con. You did not hear . . . you thought he spoke 
Of love ? what if you should mistake ! 

Queen. No, no — 

No mistake ! Ha, there shall be no mistake ! 
He had not dared to hint the love he felt — 
You were my reflex — (how I understood !) 
He said you were the ribbon I had worn, 
He kissed my hand, he Icfoked into my eyes, 
And love, love was the end of every phrase, 
Love is begun ; this much is come to pass : 
The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours ! 
I will learn, I will place my life on you, 
But teach me how to keep what I have won ! 
Am ] so old ? This hair was early gray ; 



In a Balcony. 337 



But joy ere now lias brought hair brown again, 

And joy will bring the cheek's red back, 1 feel. 

I could sing once too ; that was in my youth. 

Still, when men paint me, they declare me . . . yes, 

Beautiful— for the last French painter did ! 

I know they flatter somewhat I you are frank — 

I trust you. How 1 loved you from the first ! 

Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out 

And set her by their side to take the eye : 

I must have felt that good would come from you. 

I am not generous — like him — like you ! 

But he is not your lover after all : 

It was not you he looked at. Saw you him ? 

You have not been mistaking words or looks } 

He said you were the reflex of myself. 

And yet he is not such a paragon 

To you, to younger women who may choose 

Among a thousand Norberts. Speak the truth \ 

You know you never named his name to me — 

You know, I cannot give him up — ah God, 

Not up now, even to you I 

Co)i. Then calm yourself. 

Queen. See, I am old — look here, you happy girl ! 
I will not play the fool, deceive myself; 
*Tis all gone : put your cheek beside my cheek — 
Ah, what a contrast does the moon behold ! 
But then I set my life upon one*chance, 
The last chance and the best — am /not left, 
My soul, myself } All women love great men, 
If yoang or old ; it is in all the tales : 
Young beauties love old poets who can love — 
Why should not he, the poems in my soul, 
The love, the passionate faith, the sacrifice, 
The constancy } I throw them at his feet; 
Who cares to see the fountain's very shape, 
And whether it be a Triton's or a Nymph's 
That pours the form, makes rainbows all around } 
You could not praise indeed the empty conch ; 
But I'll pour floods of love and hide myself. 
How I will love him I Cannot men love love? 
Who was a queen and loved a poet once 
Humpback, a dwarf } ah, women can do that ! 
Well, but men too : at least, they tell you so. 
They love so many women in their youth. 
And even in age they all love whom they please ; 
And yet the best of them confide to friends 
That 'tis not beauty makes the lasting love — 



33^ In a BaIco7ty, 



They spend a day with such and tire the next : 
They Uke soul, — well then, they like fantasy. 
Novelty even. Let us confess the truth, 
Horrible though it be, that prejudice, 
Prescription . . . curses ! they will love a queen, 
They will, they do : and will not, does not — he.^ 

Coji, How can he ? You are wedded : 'tis a name 
We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains. 
His rank remains. How can he, nobly souled 
As you believe and I incline to think, 
Aspire to be your favorite, shame and all ? 

Qiiee?!. Hear her ! There, there now — could she love 
like me.^ 
What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace } 
See all it does or could do ! so, youth loves ! 
Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do 
What I will — you, it was not born in ! I 
Will drive these difificulties far and fast 
As yonder mists curdling before the moon. 
I'll use my light too, gloriously retrieve 
My youth from its enforced calamity. 
Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his, 
His own in the eyes alike of God and man. 

Con. You will do — dare do . . . pause on what you say ! 

Queen. Hear her ! I thank you, sweet, for that surprise. 
You have the fair face : for the soul, see mine ! 
I have the strong, soul : let me teach you, here. 
I think I have borne enough and long enough, 
And patiently enough, the world remarks, 
To have my own way now, unblamed by all. 
It does so happen (I rejoice for it) 
This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot. 
There's not a better way of settling claims 
Than this : God sends the accident express : 
And were it for my subjects' good, no more. 
'Twere best thus ordered. I am thankful now. 
Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive. 
And bless God simply, or should almost fear 
To walk so smoothly to my ends at last. 
Why, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate ! 
How strong I am ! Could Norbert see me now ! 

Con, Let me consider ! It is all too strange. 

Queeji. You, Constance, learn of me ; do you, like me ! 
You are young, beautiful : my own, best girl, 
You will have many lovers, and love one — 
Light hair, not hair like Norbert's to suit yours, 
And taller than he is, for yourself are tall. 



In a Balcony. 



ii^ 



Love him, like ine I Give all away to him ; 
Think never of yourself ; throw by your pride, 
Hope, fear, — your own good as you saw at once, 
And love him simply for his very self 
Remember, I (and what am I to you ?) 
Would give up all for one, leave throne, lose life, 




111 CO.ME to VOU I-OK COLMbKL. 



Do all but just unlove him ! He loves me. 

Co7i. He shall. 

Queen. You, step inside my inmost heart ! 

Give me your own heart : let us have one heart ! 
I'll come to you for counsel ; " this he says, 
This he does ; what should this amount to, pray } 
Beseech you, change it into current coin ! 
Is that worth kisses ? Shall I please him there ? " 
And then we'll speak in turn of you — what else ? 
Your love, according to your beauty's worth. 
For you shall have some noble love, all gold : 
Whom choose you } we will get him at your choice. 
— Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since, 
I felt as I must die or be alone 



340 In a Balcony. 

Breathing my soul into an ear like yours ; 
Now, I would face the world with my new life, 
With my new crown. I'll walk around the rooms, 
And then come back and tell you how it feels. 
How soon a smile of God can change the world ! 
How we are made for happiness — how work 
Grows play, adversity a winning fight ! 
True I have lost so many years : what then ? 
Many remain : God has been very good. 
You, stay here : 'l^is as different from dreams, 
From the mind's cold calm estimate of bliss, 
As these stone statues from the flesh and blood. 
The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon, 

[^Shegoes out, /eavi?ig Co^STA^CY., DaJice-vnisic 
fro77i within. 

Nor BERT enters. 

Nor. Well ? we have but one minute and one word ! 

Con. I am yours, Norbert ! 

N'or, Yes, mine. ■ 

Con. Not till now ! 

You were mine. Now I give myself to you. 

Nor. Constance } 

Con. Your own ! I know the thriftier way 

Of giving — haply, 'tis the wiser way. 
Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole 
Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, 
With a new largess still at each despair), 
And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve 
Exhaustless to the end my part and yours, 
My giving and your taking ; both our joys 
Dying together. Is it the wiser way } 
I choose the simpler : I give all at once. 
Know what you have to trust to, trade upon ! 
Use it, abuse it, — anything but think 
Hereafter, *' Had I known she loved me so. 
And what my means, I might have thriven with it." 
This is your means. I give you all myself. 

N'or. I take you and thank God. 

Con. Look on through years ! 

We cannot kiss a second day like this ; 
Else were this earth, no earth. 

Nor. With this day's heat 

We shall go on through years of cold. 

Co?i. So, best ! 

• — I try to see those years, — I think I see. 
You walk quick and new warmth comes ; you look back 



In a Balcony, 34 1 



And lay all to the first glow— not sit down 
Forever brooding on a day like this 
While seeing the embers whiten and love die. 
Yes, love lives best in its effect ; and mine, 
Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours. 

Nor. Just so. I take and know you all at once. 
Your soul is disengaged so easily, 
Your face is there, 1 know you ; give me time, 
Let me be proud and think you shall know me, 
My soul is slower; in a life I roll 
The minute out whereto you condense yours — - 
The whole slow circle round you I must move, 
To be just you. I look to a long life 
To decompose this minute, prove its worth. 
'Tis the sparks' long succession one by one 
Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed 
In that mere stone you struck ; how could you know, 
If it lay ever unproved in your sight, 
As now my heart lies } your own warmth would hide 
Its coldness, were it cold. 

Con. But how prove, how 1 

Nor. Prove in my life, you ask ? 

Con. Quick, Norbert — how.^ 

Nor. That's easy told. I count life just a stuff 
To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. 
Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. 
As with the body — he who hurls a lance 
Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike. 
So I will seize and use all means to prove 
And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours. 
And justify us both. 

Con. Could you write books, 

Paint pictures ! One sits down in poverty 
And writes or paints, with pity for the rich. 

Nor. And loves one's painting and one's writing, 
then. 
And not one's mistress ! All is best, believe. 
And we best as no other than we are. 
We live, and they experiment on life — 
Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof 
To overlook the farther. Let us be 
The thing they look at. I might take your face 
And write of it, and paint it, — to what end } 
For w^hom } what pale dictatress in the air 
Feeds, smiling sadly, her fine ghost-like form 
With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous 
life 



342 In a Balcony. 



She makes despised forever ? You are mine, 
Made for me, not for others in the world, 
Nor yet for tliat which I should call my art, 
The cold calm power to see how fair you look. 
I come to you ; I leave you not, to write 
Or paint. You are, I am : let Rubens there 
Paint us ! 

Co7i. So, best ! 

Nor. I understand your soul. 

You live, and rightly sympathize with life. 
With action, power, success. This way is straight; 
And time were short beside, to let me change 
The craft my childhood learnt : my craft shall serve. 
Men set me here to subjugate, inclose, 
Manure their barren lives, and force the fruit 
First for themselves, and afterward for me 
In the due tithe ; the task of some one man. 
Through ways of work appointed by themselves. 
I am not bid create, — they see no star 
Transfiguring my brow to wariant that, — 
But bind in one and carry out their wills. 
So 1 began : to-night sees how I end. 
What if it see, too, mv first outbreak here 
Amid the warmth, surprise, and sympathy. 
And instincts of the heart that teach the head? 
W^hat if the people have discerned at length 
The dawn of the next nature, the new man 
Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, 
And who, they trust, shall find them out new ways 
To heights as new which yet he only sees? 
I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, 
This people, — in our phrase, this mass of men, — 
See how the mass lies passive to my hand 
And how my hand is plastic, and you by 
To make the muscles iron ! Oh, an end 
Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first ! 
My will be on this people ! then the strain. 
The grappling of the potter with his clay. 
The long, uncertain struggle, — the success 
And consummation of the spirit-work. 
Some vase shaped to the curl of the god's lip. 
While rounded fair for lower men to see 
The Graces in a dance all recognize 
With turbulent applause and laughs of heart ! 
So triumph ever shall renew itself ; 
Ever shall end in efforts higher yet, 
Ever begin . . . 



In a Balcony. 



343 



Con, I ever helping ? 

Nor, Thus! 

l^As he embraces her, the Queen enters. 

Con, Hist, Madam ! So I have performed my part. 
You see your gratitude's true decency, 
Norbert ? A Httle slow in seeing it ! 




■^ 



Thus! 



Begin to end the sooner I What's a kiss ? 

Nor. Constance ? 

Con. Why, must I teach it you again ? 

You want a witness to your dullness, sir? 
What was I saying these ten minutes long? 
Then I repeat, — when some young, handsome man 
Like you has acted out a part like yours, 
Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond, 
So very far beyond him, as he says, — 
So hopelessly in love that but to speak 
Would prove him mad, — he thinks judiciously, 
And makes some insignificant good soul, 
Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant, 
And very stalking-horse to cover hinri 



344 In a Balcony. 



In following after what he dares not face — 
When his end's gained— (sir, do you understand ?) 
When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, 
— May I not say so, Madani ? — tops his hope, 
And overpasses so his wildest dream, 
With glad consent of all, and most of her 
The confidant who brought the same about — 
Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, 
I do hold that the merest gentleman 
Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, 
Dismiss it with a ** There, enough of you !" 
Forget it, show his back unmannerly ; 
But like a liberal heart will rather turn 
And say, '* A tingling time of hope was ours ; 
Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two Hved 
A chanceful tiine in waiting for the prize : 
The confidant, the Constance, served not ill. 
And though I shall forget her in due time. 
Her use being answered now% as reason bids, 
Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts, — 
Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her. 
The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool, 
And the first — which is the last — rewarding kiss." 
Nor. Constance, it is a dream — ah, see, you smile.? 
Con. So, now his part being properly performed. 
Madam, I turn to you and finish mine 
As duly : I do justice in my turn. 
Yes, Madam, he has loved you— long and well ; 
He could not hope to tell you so — 'twas I 
Who served to prove your soul accessible, 
I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place 
When else they had wandered out into despair, 
And kept love constant toward its natural aim. 
Enough, my part is played ; you stoop half-way 
And meet us royally and spare our fears : 
'Tis like yourself. He thanks you, so do I. 
Take him— wnth my full heart ! my w^ork is praised 
By what comes of it. Be you happy, both ! 
Yourself— the only one on earth who can — 
Do all for him, much more than a mere heart 
Which though warm is not useful in its warmth 
As the silk vesture of a queen ! fold that 
Around him gently, tenderly. For him — 
For him, — he know^s his own part ! 

^07\ Have you done .? 

I take the jest at last. Should I speak now? 
Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child, 



In a Balcony, 345 



Or did you but accept it ? Well — at least 
You lose by it. 

Con. Nay, madam, 'tis your turn ! 

Restrain him still from speech a little more, 
And make him happier and more confident ! 
Pity him, madam, he is timid yet ! 
Mark, Norbert ! Do not shrink now ! Here I yield 
My whole right in you to the Queen, observe ! 
With her go put in practice the great schemes 
You teem with, follow the career else closed — 
Be all you cannot be except by her ! 
Behold her! — Madam, say for pity's sake 
Anything — frankly say you love him ! Else 
He'll not believe it : there's more earnest in 
His fear than you conceive : I know the man ! 

Nor. I know the woman somewhat, and confess 
I thought she had jested better : she begins 
To overcharge her part. I gravely wait 
Your pleasure, Madam : where is my reward ? 

Queen. Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize 
Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit. 
Eccentric speech, and variable miith. 
Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, 
Yet suitable, the whole night's w^ork being strange) 
— May still be right : I may do well to speak 
And make authentic what appears a dream 
To even myself. For what she says is truth. 
Yes, Norbert — what you spoke just now of love, 
Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me, 
But justified a warmth felt long before. 
Yes, from the first — I loved you, I shall say : 
Strange ! but I do grow^ stronger, now 'tis said. 
Your courage helps mine : you did well to speak 
To-night, the night that crowns your twelvemonth' 

toil : 
But still I had not waited to discern 
Your heart so long, believe me ! From the first 
The source of so much zeal was almost plain, 
In absence even of your own words just now 
Which opened out the truth. 'Tis very strange, 
But takes a happy ending — in your love 
Which mine meets : be it so ! as you choose me, 
So I choose you. 

Nor, And worthily you choose. 

I will not be unworthy your esteem. 
No, Madam. I do love you ; I will meet 
Your nature, now I know it. This was well, 



34^ Jn a Balcony 



I see, — you dare and you are justified: 
But none had ventured such experiment, 
Less versed than you in nobleness of hedrt, 
Less confident of finding such in me. 
I joy that tlius you test me ere you grant 
The dearest, richest, beautecmsest, and best 
Of women to my arms : 'tis like yourself. 
So — back again into my part's set words — 
Devotion to the uttermost is yours, 
But no, you cannot, Madam, even you, 
Create in me the love our Constance does. 
Or — something truer to the tragic phrase — 
Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent 
Invites a certain insect — that's myself — 
But the small eye-flower nearer to the ground. 
1 take this lady. 

Con. Stay — not hers, the trap — "" 

Stay, Norbert — that mistake were woi'st of all ! 
He is too cunning, Madam ! It was I, 
I, Norbert, who . . . 

Nor. You, was it, Constance } Then 

But for the grace of this divinest hour 
Which gives me you, I might not pardon here ! 
I am the Queen's ; she only knows my brain : 
She may experiment therefore on my heart 
And I instruct her too by the result. 
But you, Sweet, you who know me, wiio so long 
Have told my heart-beats over, held my life 
In those wdiite hands of yours, — it is not well ! 

Con. Tush ! I have said it, did I not say it all } 
The life, for her — the heart-beats, for her sake ! 

Nor. Enough ! my cheek grows red, I think. Your 
test 1 
There's not the meanest woman in the world. 
Not she I least could love in all the world, 
Whom, did she love me, did love prove itself, 
I dare insult as you insult me now. 
Constance, I could say, if it must be said, 
*' Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine ! " 
But — " Take the soul still quivering on your hand, 
The soul so offered, which I cannot use. 
And, please you, give it to some playful friend. 
For — what's the trifle he requites me w^ith } " 
— I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man. 
That two may mock her heart if it succumb.^ 
No : fearing God, and standing 'neath his heaven^ 
I would not dare insult a w^oman so, 



In a Balcony, 347 



Were she the meanest woman in the world. 
And he, I cared to please, ten emperors ! 

Con. Norbert ! 

No7\ I lov^e once as I live but once. 

What case is this to think or talk about ? 
I love you. Would it mend the case at all 
Should such a step as this kill love in me ? 
Your part were done : account to God for it ! 
But mine — could murdered love get up again, 
And kneel to whom you please to designate, 
And make you mirth ? It is too horrible. 
You did not know this, Constance ? now you know 
That body and soul have each one life, but one; 
And here's my love, here, living, at your feet. 

Co7i. See the Queen ! Norbert — this one more last 
word — 
If thus you have taken jest for earnest — thus 
Loved me in earnest . . . 

Nor. Ah, no jest holds here ! 

Where is the laughter in which jest breaks up, 
And what this honor that grows palpable.^ 
Madam — why grasp you thus the balcony } 
Have I done ill } Have I not spoken truth } 
How could I other } Was it not your test, 
To try me, w^hat my love for Constance meant } 
Madam, your royal soul itself approves. 
The first, that I should choose thus! so one takes 
A beggar, — asks him, what would buy his child } 
And then approves the expected laugh of scorn 
Returned as something noble from the rags. 
Speak, Constance, I'm the beggar ! Ha, what's this.^ 
You two glare each at each like panthers now. 
Constance, the world fades: only you stand there! 
You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things, 
Sell me — your soul of souls, for any price } 
No — no — 'tis easy to believe in you ! 
Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop 
Mine by this vain self-sacrifice.^ well, still — 
Though I should curse, I love you. I am love 
And cannot change : love's self is at your feet ! 

[ The Queen goes out. 

Con. Feel my heart : let it die against your own ! 

Nor. Against my own. Explain not : let this be ! 
This is life's height. 

Con. Yours, yours, 3^ours ! 

Nor. You and I — 

Why care by^what meanders we are here 




Ha, what's this ? 



Old Pictures in Flore?ice, 349 

r the center of the labyrinth ? Men have died 
Trying to find this place, which we have found. 

Co}L, Found, found ! 

Nor. Sweet, never fear what she can do ! 

We are past harm now. 

Con. On the breast of God. 

I thought of nieii — as if you were a man. 
Tempting him with a crown I 

Nor. This must end here: 

It is too perfect. 

Con. There's the music stopped. 

What measured heavy tread .^ It is one blaze 
About me and within me. 

Nor. Oh, some death 

Will run its sudden finger round this spark 
And sever us from the rest ! 

Con. And so do well 

Now the doors open. 

Nor, 'Tis the guard comes. 

Con. Kiss ! 



J# 



-^•'''^^'^s?'-**'. 




y 






OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 

I. 
The morn when first it thunders in March, 

The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say. 
As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch 

Of the villa-gate this warm March day, 
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled 

In the valley beneath where, white and wide 
And washed by the morning water-gold, 

Florence lay out on the niountain-side. 

II. 
River and bridge and street and square 
Lay mine, as much at my beck and call, 



35^ Old Pictures in Florence. 



Through the live translucent bath of air, 
As the sights in a magic crystal-ball. 

And of all I saw and of all I praised, 
The most to praise and the best to see 

Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised : 
But why did it more than startle me ? 

III. 

Giotto, how, with that soul of yours, 

Could you play me false who loved you so ? 
Some slights if a certain heart endures 

Yet it feels, I would have your fellov^s know ) 
r faith, I perceive not why I should care 

To break a silence that suits them best, 
But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear 

When I find a Giotto join the rest. 

IV. 

On the arch where olives overhead 

Print the blue sky with twig and leaf 
(That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed), 

'Twixt the aloes, I used to learn in chief, 
And mark through the winter afternoons. 

By a gift God grants me now and then, 
In the mild decline of those suns like moons, 

Who walked in Florence, besides her men. 



They might chirp and chaffer, come and go 

For pleasure or profit, her men alive — 
My business was hardly with them, I trow, 

But with empty cells of the human hive ; 
— With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch, 

The church's apsis, aisle or nave. 
Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, 

Its face set full for the sun to shave. 

VI. 

Wherever a fresco peels and drops, 

Wherever an outline weakens and wanes 
Till the latest life in the painting stops. 

Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains 
One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick. 

Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, 
— A lion who dies of an ass's kick. 

The wronged great soul of an ancient Master, 



Old Pic'ures in Florence. 351 



VII. 

For oh, this world an-d the wrong it does ! 

They are safe in heaven with their backs to it, 
The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzz 

Round the works of, you of the little wit ! 
Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope, 

Now that they see God face to face. 
And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 

'Tis their holiday now, in any case. 

VIII. 

Much they reck of your praise and you ! 

But the wronged great souls — can they be quit 
Of a world where their work is all to do, 

Where you style them, you of the little wit, 
Old Master This and Early the Other, 

Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows: 
A younger succeeds to an elder brother, 

Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos. 

IX. 

And here where your praise might yield returns, 

And a handsome word or two give help, 
Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns. 

And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. 
What, not a word for Stefano there. 

Of brow once prominent and starry. 
Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair 

For his peerless painting? (see Vasari.) 

X. 

There stands the Master. Study, my friends, 

What a man's work comes to ! So he plans it, 
Performs it, perfects it, makes amends 

For the toiling and moiling, and then, sic transit! 
Happier the thrifty blind-folk labor, 

With upturned eye while the hand is busy. 
Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbor! 

'Tis looking downward makes one dizzy. 

XI. 

" If you knew their work you would deal your dole." 

May I take upon me to instruct you ? 
Wn-ien Greek Art ran and reached the goal, 

Thus much had the world to boast in fructn — 
The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken, 

Which the actual generations garble. 



352 Old Pictures in Florence. 



Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) 
And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. 

XII. 
So, you saw yourself as you wished you were, 

As you might have been, as you cannot be ; 
Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there : 

And grew content in your poor degree 
With your little power, by those statues' godhead, 

And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, 
And your little grace, by their grace embodied, 

And your little date, by their forms that stay. 




XIII. 
You would fain be kingiier, say, than I am ? 

Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. 
You would prove a model } The Son of Priam 

Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. 
You're wroth— can you slay your snake like Apollo } 

You're grieved— still Niobe's the grander ! 
You live — there's the Racers' frieze to follow : 

You die — there's the dying Alexander. 

XIV. 
So, testing your weakness by their strength. 
Your meager charms by their rounded beauty, 



Old Pictuj'cs in Floi-ence. 353 



Measured by Art in your breadth and length, 
You learned— to submit is a mortal's duty. 

—When I say '* you," 'tis the common soul, 
The collective, I mean ; the race of Man 

That receives life in parts to live in a whole, 
And grow here according to God's clear plan. 

XV. 

Growth came when, looking your last on them all, 

You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day 
And cried with a start — What if we so small' 

Be greater and grander the while than they? 
Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature? 

In both, of such lower types are we 
Precisely because of our wider nature ; 

For time, theirs— ours, for eternity. 

XVI. 

To-day's brief passion limits their range ; 

It seethes with the morrow for us and more. 
They are perfect— how else ? they shall never change : 

We are faulty — why not ? we have time in store. 
The Artificer's hand is not arrested 

With us ; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished. 
They stand for our copy, and, once invested 

With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. 

XVII. 

'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven— 

The better ! What's come to perfection perishes. 
Things learned on earth, we shall practice in heaven : 

Work done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. 
Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto ! 

Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish, 
Done at a stroke, was just (was it not ?) " O " 

Thy great Campanile is still to finish. 

XVIII. 

Is it true that we are now, and shall ])e hereafter, 

But what and where depend on life's minute ? 
Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter 

Our first step out of the gulf or in it? * 
Shall Man, such step wnthin his endeavor, 

Man's face, have no more play and action 
Than joy which is crystallized forever, 

Or grief, an eternal petrifaction- 



354 Old Pictures in Florence. 



XIX. 

On which I conclude, that the early painters, 

To cries of " Greek Art and what more wish you ? " — 
Replied, " To become now self-acquainters, 

And paint^man, man, whatever the issue ! 
Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, 

New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters : 
To bring the invisible full into play. 

Let the visible go to the dogs— what matters? " 

XX. 

Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory 

For daring so much, before they well did it. 
The first of the new, in our race's story, 

Beats the last of the old ; 'tis no idle quiddit. 
The worthies began a revolution, 

Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge, 
Why, honor them now ! (ends my allocution) 

Nor confer your degree when the folks leave college. 

XXI. 

There's a fancy some lean to and others hate — 

That, when this life is ended, begins 
New work for the soul in another state, 

Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins : 
Where the strong and the w^eak, this world's congeries, 

Repeat in large what they practiced in small. 
Through life after life in unlimited series ; 

Only the scale's to be changed, that's all. 

XXII. 

Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen 

By the means of Evil that Good is best, 
Anci, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's 
serene, — 

When our faith in the same has stood the test — 
Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod. 

The uses of labor are surely done; 
There remaineth a rest for the people of God: 

And I have had troubles enough, for one. 

XXIII. 

But at any rate I have loved the season 

Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy; 
My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 

My painter — who but Cimabue ? 



Old Pictures iii Florence, 



355 




Nor even was man of them all in- 
deed, 
From these to Ghiberti and Chil- 
ian dajo, 
Could say that he missed my critic- 
meed. 
So, now to my special grievance — 
heigh-ho ! 

XXIV. 

Their ghosts still stand, as I said 
before, 
Watching each fresco flaked and 
rasped. 
Blocked up, knocked out, or white- 
washed o'er : 
— No getting again what the 
Church has grasped ! 
The works on the wall must take 
their chance ; 
** Works never conceded to Eng- 
land's thick clime ! " 
(I hope they prefer their inheritance 
Of a bucketful of Italian quick- 
lime.) 

XXV. 
When they go at length, with such a shaking 

Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly 
Each master his way through the black streets taking, 

Where many a lost work breathes though badly — 
Why don't they bethink them of who has merited? 

Why not reveal, while their pictures dree 
Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted? 
Why is it they never remember me? 

XXVI. 

Not that I expect the great Bigordi, 

Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose ; 
Nor the wronged Lippino ; and not a word I 

Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico's : 
But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, 

To grant me a taste of your intonaco. 
Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye ? 

Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco ? 

XXVII. 

Could not the ghost with the close red cap, 
My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, 



Each master his way through 
the black streets taking. 



35 6 Old Pictures in Florence. 

Sav^e me a sample, give me the hap 

Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman ? 
No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, 

Of finical touch and tempera crumbly — 
Could not Alesso Baldovinetti 

Contribute so much, I ask him humbly ? 

XXVIII. 

Margheritone of Arezzo, 

With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret 
(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, 

You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) 
Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, 

Where in the foreground kneels the donor? 
If such remain, as is my conviction. 

The hoarding it does you but little honor. 

XXIX. 

They pass ; for them the panels may thrill, 

The tempera grow alive and tinglish : 
Their pictures are left to the mercies still 

Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English, 
Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, 

Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno 
At naked High Art, and in ecstasies 

Before some clay-cold vile Carlino ! 

XXX. 

No matter for these ! And Giotto, you, 

Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it — 
•Oh, never! it shall not be counted true — 

That a certain precious little tablet 
Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, 

Was buried so long in oblivion's womb 
And, left for another than I to discover, 

Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — to whom ? 

XXXI. 

I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito, 

(Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) 
Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe ! 

Nay, 1 shall have it yet ! Defur anianii ! 
My Koh-i-noor— or (if that's a platitude) 

Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Soft's eye ; 
So, in anticipative gratitude, 

What if 1 take up my hope and prophesy ? 



Old Pictures in Florence. 357 



XXXII. 

When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard 

Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing, 
To the worst side of the Mont St. Gothard, 

We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; 
None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), 

Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer, 
Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge 

Over Morello with squib and cracker. 

XXXIII. 

This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot : 

No mere display at the stone of Dante, 
But a kind of sober Witenagemot 

(Ex : '' Casa Guidi," quodvideas ante) 
Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence, 

How Art may return that departed with her. 
Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's, 

And bring us the days of Orgagna hither ! 

XXXIV. 

How we shall prologuize, how^ we shall perorate, 

Utter fit things upon art and history, 
Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero-rate, 

Make of the want of the age no mystery ; 
Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, 

Show^— monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks 
Out of the bear's shape into Chimsera's, 

While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's ! 

XXXV. 

Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, 

Expurgate and sober, wnth scarcely an " issivio "), 
To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan, 

And turn the bell-tower's alt to altissivio : 
And, fine as the beak of a young beccaccia, 

The Campanile, the Duo'mo's fit ally, 
Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia, 

Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy. 

XXXVI. 

Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold 
Is broken away, and the long-pent fire, 

Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled 
Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire, 

While, " God and the People " plain for its miotto, 



358 Bishop Bloii^ravi s Apology. 

Thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky? 
At least to foresee that glory of Giotto 
And Florence together, the first am I ! 

]\ToTE. — The space left here templs to a word on the line about Apollo the 
snake-slayer, which my friend Professor Colvin condemns, believing that the God 
of the Belvedere grasps no bow, but the ^^gis, as described in^ the 15th Iliad. 
Surely the text represent-^ that portentous object (^oOpti', Setvrjv, d/x(^t6acreiai', apt- 
irpeni'—ixapiJiaperjv} as ''shaken violently" or " held immovably," by both hands, 
not a single one, and that the left hand : 

aWa (TV y' ev ;;^etpe{ro't Aa/3' alyiSa dvaavoecra'av 
rrjv /ulolA' ewLaaeiuiv (j)0^eeLV rjpcaa? 'A;;^atou9, 

and so on, tyiv ap' 6 y' ev x^ipfo-o-iv e^wj/ — x^P'^'-^ ^x' oLTpe/xa, k. t. A. Moreover, 
while he shook it he '' shouted enormously," aela, eni 6' avTo^ avae txdka. fxeya, 
which the statue does not. Presently when Teukros. on the other side, plies the 
bow, it i^ To^ou ix^v iv x^tpt "'oi'^'-^'^o^o^'- Beside>, by the act of discharging an 
arrow, the right arm and hand are thrown back as we see. — a quite gratuitous and 
theatrical display in the case supposed The conjecture of Flaxman that the 
statue was suggested by the bronze Apollo Alexikakos of Kalamis, mentioned by 
Pausanias, remains probable; though the ' hardness " which Cicero considers to 
distinguish the artist's workmanship from that of Muron is not by any means ap- 
parent in our marble copy, if it be one. — February 16, 1880. 

BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 

No more wine.^ then we'll push back chairs and talk. 
A final glass for me, though : cool, i' faith ! 
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. 
It's different, preaching in basilicas, 
And doing duty in some masterpiece 
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart ! 
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, 
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere ; 
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln : eh ? 
These hot, long ceremonies of our Church 
Cost us a little — oh, they pay the price. 
You take me — amply pay it ! Now we'll talk. 

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs, 
No deprecation — nay, I beg you, sir ! 
Beside 'tis our engagement : don't you know, 
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out. 
We'd see truth dawn together .^— truth that peeps 
Over the glass's edgt when dinner's done, 
And body gets its sop and holds its noise. 
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time : 
'Tis break of day ! You do despise me then. 
And if I say, ** despise me," — never fear ! 
I know you do not in a certain sense — 
Not in my arm-chair, for example : here. 
I will imagine you respect my place 
{Status, entourage, worldly circumstance) 



Bishop Blougram^s Apology, 



359 




•^ X ^ 




Bishop Bl-ougram. 



Quite to its value — very much indeed : 

— Are up to the protesting eyes of you 

In pride at being seated here for once — 

You'll turn it to such capital account ! 

When somebody, through years and years to come, 

Hints of the bishop, — names me — that's enough : 

** Blougram ? I knew him " — (into it you slide) 

*' Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, 

All alone, we two ; he's a clever man : 

And after dinner, — why, the wine you know, — 

Oh, there was wine, and good ! — what with the wine 

'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk ! 

He's no bad fellow, Blougram ; he had seen 

Something of mine he relished, some review : 

He's quite above their humbug in his heart, 

Half said as much, indeed — the thing's his trade. 



360 Bishop Blougram's Apology. 

I warrant, Blougrain's skeptical at times: 

How otherwise? I lil>:e him, I confess !" 

Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome, 

Don't you protest now ! It's fair give and take; 

You have had your turn, and spoken your home-truths 

The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. 

Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays — 
You do despise me ; your ideal of life 
Is not the bishop's ; you would not be I. 
You would like better to be Goethe, now, 
Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, 
Count D'Orsay, — so you did wiiat you preferred, 
Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, 
Believed or disbelieved, no matter what. 
So long as on that point, whate'er it was. 
You loosed your nnnd, were whole and sole yourself. 
— That, my ideal never can include. 
Upon that element of truth and worth 
Never be based ! for say they make me Pope 
(They can't — suppose it for our argument). 
Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached 
My height, and not a height which pleases you : 
An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. 
It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, 
Of how some actor played Death on a stage, 
With pasteboard crown, sham orb, and tinseled dart, 
And called himself the monarch of the world ; 
Then, going in the tire-room afterward, 
Because the play was done, to shift himself. 
Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly. 
The moment he had shut the closet door. 
By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope 
At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, 
And \vhose part he presumed to play just now ? 
Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true ! 

So, drawing comfortable breath again, 

You weigh and find, \vhatever more or less 

I boast of my ideal realized, 

Is nothing in the balance when opposed 

To your ideal, your grand simple life, 

Of which you will not realize one jot. 

I am much, you are nothing ; you would be all, 

I would be merely much : you beat me there. 

No, friend, you do not beat me : hearken why ! 
The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, 



Bishop Blougrams Apology, 361 



Is — not to fancy what were fair in life 
Provided it could be,— but, finding- first 
What may be, then find how to make it fair 
Up to our means : a very different thing ! 
No abstract intellectual plan of life 
Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, 
But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, 
May lead within a world which (by your leave) 
Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. 
Embellish Rome, idealize away. 
Make paradise of London if you can, 
You're welcome, nay, you're wise. 

A simile ! 
We mortals cross the ocean of this world 
Each in his average cabin of a life ; 
The best's not big, the worst yields elbows-room. 
Now for our six months' voyage — how prepare? 
You come on shipboard with a landsman's list 
Of things he calls convenient : so they are ! 
An India screen is pretty furniture, 
A pianoforte is a fine resource, 
All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, 
The new edition fifty volumes long; 
And little Greek books, with the funny type 
They get up w^ell at Leipsic, fill the next': 
Go on ! slabbed marl)le, what a bath it makes ! 
And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add ! 
'Twere pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow 
Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, 
Since he more than the others brings with him 
Italy's self,— the marvelous Modenese !— 
Yet was not on your list before, perhaps 
— Alas, friend ! here's the agent \ . . is't the name? 
The captain, or whoever's master here — 
You see him screw his face up ; what's his cry 
Ere you set foot on shipboard ? ** Six feet square ! " 
If you won't understand what six feet mean, 
Compute and purchase stores accordingly — 
And if, in pique because he overhauls 
Your Jerome, piano and bath, you come on board 
Bare— why, you cut a figure at the first 
While sympathetic landsmen see you off ; 
Not afterward, when long ere half seas over. 
You peep up from your utterly naked boards 
Into some snug and well-appointed berth. 
Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug— 



362 Bishop Blougrains Apology. 

Put back the other, but don't jog the ice !) 

And mortified you mutter " Well and good ; 

He sits enjoying his sea-furniture ; 

'Tis stout and proper, and there's store of it : 

Though I've the better notion, all agree, 

Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, 

Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances — 

I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all! " 

And meantime you bring nothing: never mind — 

You've proved your artist-nature : what you don't 

You might bring, so despise me, as I say. 

Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. 
See my way : we're two college friends, suppose. 
Prepare together for our voyage, then ; 
Each note and check the other in his work, — 
Here's mine, a bishop's outfit ; criticize ! 
What's wrong? why, won't you be a bishop too ? 

Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't 
(Not steadily, that is, and fixedly 
And absolutely and exclusively), 
In any revelation called divine. 
No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains 
But say so, like the honest man you are } 
First, therefore, overhaul theology! 
Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, 
Must find believing every w^hit as hard : 
And if I do not frankly say as much. 
The ugly consequence is clear enough. 

Now wait, my friend : well, I do not believe — 
If you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, 
Absolute and exclusive, as you say. 
You're wrong — I mean to prove it in due time. 
Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie 
I could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, 
So give up hope accordingly to solve — 
(To you and over the wine). Our dogmas then 
With both of us, though in unlike degree. 
Missing full credence — overboard with them ! 
I mean to meet you on your own premise : 
Good, there go mine in company with yours! 

And now what are we? unbelievers both, 
Calm and complete, determinately fixed 
To-day, to-morrow, and forever, pray ? 
You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! 



Bishop Bloiigram' s Apology. '^(^'^ 

In no wise ! all we've gained is, that belief, 

As unbelief before, shakes us by fits. 

Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's 

The gain? how^ can we guard our unbelief, 

Make it bear fruit to us ? — the problem here. 

Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, 

A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, 

A chorus-ending from Euripides, — 

And that's enough for fifty liopes and fears 

As old and new at once as nature's self. 

To rap and knock and enter in our soul. 

Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, 

Round the ancient idol, on iiis base again, — 

The grand Perhaps ! We look on helplessly. 

There the old misgivings, crooked questions are — 

This good God, — what he could do if he would. 

Would, if he could — then must have done long since: 

If so, when, where, and liow.^ some way must be, — 

Once feel about, and soon or late you hit 

Some sense, in which it might be, after all. 

Why not " The Way, the Truth, the Life " ? 

That way 
Over the mountain, which who stands upon 
Is apt to doubt if it be indeed a road ; 
While if he views it from the waste itself. 
Up goes the line there, ])lain from base to brow. 
Not vague, mistakable ! what's a break or two 
Seen from the unbroken desert either side } 
And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) 
What if the breaks themselves should prove at last 
The most consummate of contrivances 
To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith ? 
And so we stumble at truth's very test ! 
All we have gained then by our unbelief 
Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, 
For one of faith diversified by doubt : 
We called the chess-board white, — we call it black. 

"Well," you rejoin, '' the end's no worse, at least; 
We've reason for both colors on the board : 
Why not confess then, where I drop the faith 
And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you } " 

Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, 
And both things even, — faith and unbelief 
Left to a man's choice, — we'll proceed a step; 
Returning to our image, which I like. 



364 Bis ho f) Blougrams Apology. 



A man's choice, yes — but a cabin passenger's — 
The man made for the special hfe o' the world — 
Do you forget liim? I remember though ! 
Consult our ship's conchtions and you find 
One and but one choice suitable to all ; 
The choice, that you unluckily prefer, 
Turning things topsy-turvy — they or it 
Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief 
Bears upon life, determines its whole course, 
Begins at its beginning. See the world 
Such as it is, — you made it not, nor 1 ; 
I mean to take it as it is, — and you, 
Not so you'll take it, — though you get naught else. 
I know the special kind of life 1 like, 
What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, 
Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit 
In power, peace, pleasantness, and length of days. 
I tind that positiv'e belief does this 
For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. 
— For you, it does, however.^ — that, we'll try ! 
'Tis clear, I cannot lead my life, at least. 
Induce the world to let me peaceably. 
Without declaring at the outset, "Friends, 
I absolutely and peremptorily 
Believe ! " — I say, faith is my waking life : 
One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, 
We know, but waking's the main point with us. 
And my provision's for life's waking part. 
Accordingly, I use heart, head, and hand 
All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends ; 
And when night overtakes me, dow^n I lie, 
Sleej), dream a little, and get done with it, 
The sooner the better, to begin afresh. 
What's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith } 
You, the philosopher, that disbelieve. 
That recognize the night, give dreams their weight — 
To be consistent you should keep your bed, 
Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, 
For fear you drow^se perhaps at unawares ! 
And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, 
Live t'l rough the day and bustle as you please. 
And so you live to sleep as I to wake. 
To unbelieve as I to still believe ? 
W^ell, and the common sense o' the world calls you 
Bed-ridden, — and its good things come to me. 
Its estimation, which is half the fight, 
That's the tirst-cabin comfort I seciiie : 



Bishop Blougra/ns Apology. 365 



The next . . . but you perceive with half an eye ! 
Come, come, it's best beUeving, if we may ; 
You can't but own that ! 

Next, concede again 
If once we choose beUef, on all accounts 
We can't be too decisive in our faith, 
Conclusive and exclusive in its terms. 
To suit the w^orld which gives us the good things. 
In every man's career are certain points 
Whereon he dares not be indifferent ; 
The world detects him clearly, if he dare, 
As baffled at the game, and losing life. 
He may care little or he may care much ' 
For riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose. 
Since various theories of life and life's 
Success are extant which might easily 
Comport with either estimate of these'; 
And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, 
Labor or quiet, is not judged a fool 
Because his fellow would choose otherwise: 
We let him choose upon his own account 
So long as he's consistent with his choice. 
But certain points, left wholly to himself, 
When once a man has arbitrated on. 
We say he must succeed there or go hang. 
Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most 
Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need— 
For he can't wed twice. Then, he must avouch, 
Or follow% at the least, sufficiently, 
The form of faith his conscience holds the best, 
Whate'er the process of conviction was : 
For nothing can compensate his mistake 
On such a point, the man himself being judge : 
He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. 

Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith 
I happened to be born in— which to teach 
Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, 
As best and readiest means of living by ; 
The same on examination being proved 
The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise 
And absolute form of faith in the whole world — 
Accordingly, m.ost potent of all forms 
For working on the world. Observe, my friend ! 
Such as you know me, I am free to say, 
In these hard latter days which hamper one. 
Myself — by no immoderate exercise 



S(^6 Bishop B long ram's Apology, 



Of intellect and learning, but the tact 

To let external forces work for me, 

— Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread ; 

Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, 

Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world 

And make my life an ease and joy and pride; 

It does so, — which for me's a great point gained, 

Who have a soul and body that exact 

A comfortable care in many ways. 

There's power in me and will to dominate 

Which I must exercise, they hurt me else : 

In many ways I need mankind's respect. 

Obedience, and the love that's born of fear : 

While at the same time, there's a taste I have, 

A toy of soul, a titillating thing, 

Refuses to digest these dainties crude. 

The naked life is gross till clothed upon : 

I must take what men offer, with a grace 

As though I would not, could I help it, take! 

An uniform I wear though over-rich — 

Something imposed on me, no choice of mine ; 

No fancy-dress w^orn for pure fancy's sake 

And despicable therefore ! now folks kneel 

And kiss my hand — of course the Church's hand. 

Thus I am made, thus life is best for me. 

And thus that it should be I have procured ; 

And thus it could not be another way, 

I venture to imagine. 

You'll reply, 
So far my choice, no doubt, is a success ; 
But were I made of better elements. 
With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, 
I hardly would account the thing success 
Though it did all for me I say. 

But, friend. 
We speak of what is ; not of what might be, 
And how 'tw^ere better if 'twere otherwise. 
I am the man you see here plain enough : 
Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives ! 
Suppose I own at once to tail and claws ; 
The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed 
I lash out lion fashion, and leave apes 
To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. 
My business is not to remake myself. 
But make the absolute best of what God made. 
Or — our first simile — though you prove me dpomecj 



Bishop Blougram' s Apology. 367 

To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, 
The sheep-pen or the pig-sty, I should strive 
To make what use of each were possible ; 
And as this cabin gets upholstery, 
That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. 

But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast 
I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes 
Enumerated so complacently, 
On the mere ground that you forsooth can find ' 
In this particular hfe I choose to lead 
No fit provision for them. Can you not ? 
Say you, my fault is I address myself 
To grosser estimators than should judge ? 
And that's no way of holding up the soul, 
Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows 
One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools' — 
Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. 
I pine among my million imbeciles 
(You think) aware some dozen men of sense 
Eye me and know me, whether I believe 
In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, 
And am a fool, or disbelieve in her 
And am a knave, — approve in neither case, 
Withhold their voices though I look their way : 
Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end 
(The thing they gave at Florence — what's its name ?) 
While the mad houseful's plaudits near out-bang 
His orchestra of salt-box, tongs, and bones, 
He looks through all the roaring and the wi'eaths 
Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. 

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here — 
That even your prime men who appraise their kind 
Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel. 
See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, 
Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street 
Sixty the minute ; what's to note in that.^^ 
You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack ; 
Him you must watch — he's sure to fall, yet stands ! 
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. 
The honest thief, the tender murderer, 
The superstitious atheist, demu'ep 
That loves and saves her soul in new French books — 
We watch while these in equilibrium keep 
The giddy line midway : one step aside, 
They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line 



S^^ Bishop Blougranis Apology. 

Before your sages, — just the men to shrink 

From the gross weights, coarse scales, and labels broad 

You offer their retinement. Fool, or knave ? 

Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave 

When there's a thousand diamond weights between ? 

So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve you'll tind, 

Profess themselves indignant, scandalized 

At thus being held unable to explain 

How a superior man who disbelieves 

May not believe as well ; that's Schelling's way ! 

It's through my coming in the tail of time, 

Nicking the minute with a happy tact. 

Had I been born three hundred years ago 

They'd say, "What's strange.^ Blougram of course 

believes ; " 
And, seventy years since, ** disbelieves of course," 
But now, " He may believe ; and yet, and yet 
How can he ? " All eyes turn with interest. 
Whereas, step off the line on either side — 
You, for example, clever to a fault, 
The rough and ready man who write apace, 
Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less — 
You disbelieve ! Who wonders and who cares } 
Lord So-and-so — his coat bedropped with wax, 
All Peter's chains about his waist, his back 
Brave with the needlework of Noodledom — 
Believes ! Again, who wonders and who cares } 
But I, the man of sense and learning too, 
The able to think yet act, the this, the that, 
I, to believe at this late time of day ! 
Enough ; you see, I need not fear contempt. 

— Except it's yours ! Admire me as these may. 
You don't. But whom at least do you admire } 
Present your own perfection, your ideal, 
Your pattern man for a minute— oh, make haste ! 
Is it Napoleon you would have us grow ? 
Concede the means; allow his head and hand 
(A large concession, clever as you are), 
Good ! In our common primal element 
Of unbelief (we can't believe, you know — 
We're still at that admission, recollect !) 
Where do you find — apart from, towering o'er 
The secondary temporary aims 
Which satisfy the gross taste \ ou despise — 
Where do you hnd his star.^ — his crazy trust 
God knows through what or in what } it's alive 



Bishop B long ram's Apology. 369 

And shines and leads him, and that's all we want. 

Have we aught in our sober night shall point 

Such ends as his were, and direct the means 

Of working out our purpose straight as his, 

Nor bring a moment's trouble on success 

With after-caie to justify the same ? 

— Be a Napoleon and yet disbelieve — 

Why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away ! 

What's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare 

With comfort to yourself blow millions up ? 

We neither of us see it ? we do see 

The blown-up millions — spatter of their brains 

And writhing of their bowels and so forth, 

In that bewildering entanglement 

Of horrible eventualities 

Past calculation to the end of time ! 

Can I mistake for some clear word of God 

(Which were my ample warrant for it all) 

His puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, 

*' The State, that's 1," quack-nonsense about crowns, 

And (when one beats the man to his last holdj 

A vague idea of setting things to rights, 

Policing peoj)le efficaciously. 

More to their profit, most of all to his own ; 

The whole to end that dismalest of ends 

By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, 

And resurrection of the old regime? 

Would I, who hope to live a dozen years. 

Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such ? 

No : for, concede me but the merest chance 

Doubt may be wrong — there's judgment, life to come ! 

W^ith just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right ? 

This present life is all ? — you offer me 

Its dozen noisy years, without a chance 

That wedding an arch-duchess, wearing lace, 

And getting called by divers new-coined names, 

Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine. 

Sleep, read, and chat in quiet as I like I 

Therefore I will not. 

Take another case. 
Fit up the cabin yet another way. 
What say you to the poets ? shall we write 
Hamlet, Othello— make the world our own, 
Without a risk to run of either sort ? 
I can't ! — to put the strongest reason first. 
*' But try," you urge, " the trying shall suffice ; 



37^ Bishop Blougra'ii s Apology. 

The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life : 
Try to be Shakspere, leave the rest to fate ! " 
Spare my self-knowledge — there's no fooling me! 
If I prefer remaining my poor self, 
I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. 
If I'm a Shakspere, let the well alone ; 
Why should I try to be what now I am ? 
If I'm no Shakspere, as too probable, — 
His power and consciousness and self-delight 
And all we want in common, shall I find- 
Trying forever? while on points of taste 
Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I 
Are dowered alike — I'll ask you, I or he, 
Which in our two liv^es realizes most ? 
Much, he imagined : somewhat, I possess." 
He had the imagination ; stick to that ! 
Let him say, " In the face of my soul's w^orks 
Your world is worthless and I touch it not 
Lest I should wrong them" — I'll withdraw my plea. 
But does he say so ? look upon his life ! 
Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. 
He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces 
To build the trimmest house in Stratford town : 
Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, 
Giulio Romano's pictures ; Dowland's lute ; 
Enjoys a show, respects the puppets too, 
And none more, had he seen its entry once. 
Than ** Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." 
Why then should I who play that personage 
The very Pandulph Shakspere's fancy made, 
Be told that had the poet chanced to start 
From where I stand now (some degree like mine 
Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) 
He w^ould have run the whole race back, forsooth, 
And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays } 
Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best ! 
Did Shakspere live, he could but sit at home 
And get himself in dreams the Vatican, 
Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, 
And English books, none equal to his own. 
Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). 
— Terni's fall, Naples' bay, and Gothard's top — 
Eh, friend ? I could not fancy one of these ; 
But, as I pour this claret, there they are : 
I've gained them — crossed St. Gothard last July 
With ten mules to the carriage and a bed 
Slung inside ; is my hap the worse for that ? 



Bishop Blotigrani s Apology, 371 



We want the same things, Shakspere and myself, 
And what I want, I have : he, gifted more, 
Could fancy he too had it when he liked, 
But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed. 
He would not have it also in my sense. 
We play one game ; I send the ball aloft 
No less adroitly that of fifty strokes 
Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high 
Which sends them back to me : I wish and get. 
He struck balls higher and with better skill. 
But at a poor fence level with his head. 
And hit — his Stratford house, a coat of arms, 
Successful dealings in his grain and wool : 
While I receive heaven's incense in my nose, 
And style myself the cousin of Queen' Bess. 
Ask him, if this life's all, who wTns the game } 

Believe — and our whole argument breaks up, 
Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat : 
Only, we can't command it ; fire and life 
Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree : 
And be it a mad dream or God's very breath. 
The fact's the same,— belief's fire, once in us, 
Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself : 
We penetrate our life with such a glow 
As fire lends wood and iron — this turns steel, 
That burns to ash — all's one, fire proves its power 
For good or ill, since men call flare success. 
But paint a fire, it will not therefoi'e burn. 
Light one in me, I'll find it food enough ! 
Why, to be Luther — that's a life to lead. 
Incomparably better than my own. 
He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says. 
Sets up God's rule again by simple means, 
Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. 
He flared out in the flaring of mankind ; 
Such Luther's luck was : how shall such be mine.^ 
If he succeeded, nothing's left to do : 
And if he did not altogether — well, 
Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be 
I might be also. But to what result.^ 
He looks upon no future : Luther did. 
What can I gain on the denying side } 
Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, 
Read the text right, emancipate the world — 
The emancipated world enjoys itself 
With scarce a thank-you : Blougram told it first 



37^ Bishop Blougrayjis Apology. 

It could not owe a farthing, — not to him 

More than Saint Paul ! 'twould press its pay, you think? 

Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance 

Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run — 

For what gain ? not for Luther's, who secured 

A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, 

Supposing death a little altered things. 

" Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, 
** You run the same risk really on all sides. 
In cool indifference as bold unbelief. 
As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. 
It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, 
No more available to do faith's work 
Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith or none ! " 

Softly, my friend ! I must dispute that point. 
Once own the use of faith, I'll find you faith. 
We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith : 
I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. 
The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, 
If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does } 
By life and man's free will, God gave for that ! 
To mold life as we choose it, shows our choice : 
That's our one act, the previous work's his own. 
You criticise the soil } it reared this tree — 
This broad life and whatever fruit it bears ! 
What matter though I doubt at every pore. 
Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, 
Doubts in the trivial work of every day, 
Doubts at the very bases of my soul 
In the grand moments when she probes herself — 
If finally I have a life to show. 
The thing I did, brought out in evidence 
Against the thing done to me underground 
By hell and all its brood, for aught I know .^ 
I say, whence sprang this.^ shows it faith, or doubt ? 
All's doubt in me ; where's break of faith in this.^ 
It is the idea, the feeling and the love, 
God means mankind should strive for and show forth 
Whatever be the process to that end, — 
And not historic knowledge, logic sound. 
And metaphysical acum^en, sure ! 
"What think ye of Christ," friend } when all's done and 

said. 
Like you this Christianity, or not ? 
It may be false, but will you wish it true? 
Has it your vote to be so if it can ? 



Bishop Btougram s Apology. 373 

Trust you an instinct silenced long ago 

That will break silence and enjoin you love 

What mortified philosophy is hoarse, 

And all in vain, with bidding you despise ? 

If you desire faith — then you've faith enough : 

What else seeks God — nay, what else seek ourselves ? 

You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, 

On hearsay ; it's a favorable one : 

** But still (you add), there was no such good man, 

Because of contradiction in the facts. 

One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, 

This Blougram ; yet throughout the tales of him 

I see he figures as an Englishman." 

Well, the two tnings are reconcilable. 

But would I rather you discovered that. 

Subjoining — "Still, what matter though they be.^ 

Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there." 

Pure faith indeed — you know not what you ask \ 
Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, 
Omniscient, omnipresent, sears too much 
The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 
It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. 
Some think. Creation's meant to show him forth: 
I say it's meant to hide him all it can, 
And that's what all the blessed evil's for. 
Its use in Time is to environ us, 
Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough 
Against that sight till we can bear its stress. 
Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain 
And lidless eye and disimprisoned heart 
Less certainly would wither up at once 
Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. 
But time and earth case-harden us to live: 
The feeblest sense is trusted most ; the child 
Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the 

place. 
Plays on, and grows to be a man 

like us. 
With me, faith means perpetual /^ 

unbelief 
Kept quiet like the snake *neath 

Michael's foot 
Who stands calm just because he 

feels it writhe. 
Or, if that's too ambitious, — here's 

my box— . Here's my box. 




374 Bishop B long ram's Apology. 

I need the excitation of a pinch 
Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose 
Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. 
** Leave it in peace! " advise the simple folk : 
Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, 
Say I — let doubt occasion still more faith ! 

You'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, 
In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. 
How you'd exult if I could put you back 
Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, 
Geology, ethnology, what not 
(Greek endings, each the little passing-bell 
That signifies some faith's about to die). 
And set you square with Genesis again ! 
When such a traveler told you his last news, 
He saw the ark a-top of Ararat 
But did not climb there since 'twas getting dusk 
And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot ! 
How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, 
How act ? As other people felt and did 
With soul more blank than this decanter's knob, 
Believe — and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate 
Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be ! 

No, when the fight begins within himself, 
A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, 
Satan looks up between his feet — both tug — 
He's left, himself, i' the middle ; the soul wakes 
And grows. Prolong that battle through his life ! 
Never leave growing till the life to come ! 
Here we've got callous to the Virgin's winks 
That used to puzzle people wholesom.ely : 
Men have outorown the shame of beinsT fools. 
What are the laws of natui'e, not to bend 
If the Church bid them ? — brother Newman asks. 
Up with the Immaculate Conception, then — 
On to the rack with faith ! — is my advice. 
Will not that huny us upon our knees, 
Knocking our breasts, " It can't be — yet it shall ! 
Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope .^ 
Low things confound the high things ! " and so forth. 
That's better than acquitting God with grace, 
As some folks do. He's tried — no case is proved, 
Philosophy is lenient — He may go ! 

You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete 
But men believe still : ay, but who and where } 



Bishop Blougram s Apology^ 375 



King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet 

The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes ; 

But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint 

Believes God watches him continually, 

As he believes in fire that it will burn, 

Or rain that it wall drench him ? Break fire's law, 

Sin against rain, although the penalty 

Be just a singe or soaking ? " No," he smiles ; 

*' Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." 

The sum of all is— yes, my doubt is great. 
My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. 
I have read much, thought much, experienced much, 
Yet would die rather than avow my fear 
The Naples' liquefaction may be false, 
When set to happen by the palace-clock 
According to the clouds or dinner-time. 
I hear you recommend, 1 might at least 
Eliminate, decrassify my faith 
Since I adopt it ; keeping what I must 
And leaving what I can — such points as this. 
I won't — that is, I can't throw one away. 
Supposing there's no truth in what I hold 
About the need of trial to man's faith, 
Still, when you bid me purify the same, 
To such a process I discern no end. 
Clearing oft one excrescence to see two, 
There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, 
That meets the knife : 1 cut and cut again ! 
First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last 
But Fichte's clever cut at God himself } 
Experimentalize on sacred things ! 
I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain 
To stop betimes : they all get drunk alike. 
The first step, I am master not to take. 

You'd find the cutting-process to your taste 
As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned. 
Nor see more danger in it, — you retort. 
Your taste's worth mine ; but my taste proves more wise 
When we consider that the steadfast hold 
On the extreme end of the chain of faith 
Gives all the advantage, makes the difference 
With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule : 
We are their lords, or they are free of us, 
Just as we tighten or relax our hold. 
So, other matters equal, we'll revert 
To the first problem — which, if solved my way 



i 



376 Bishop B hug ram* s Apology. 

And thrown into the balance, turns the scale — 
How we may lead a comfortable life, 
How suit our lug-gage to the cabin's size. 

Of course you are remarking all this time 
How narrowly and grossly I view life, 
Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule 
The masses, and regard complacently 
" The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. 
I act for, talk for, live for this world now, 
As this world prizes action, life, and talk : 
No prejudice to what next world may prove, 

Whose new laws and requirements, my best 
jfc pledge 

jfft^ To observe then, is that I observe these now, 

4E**w Shall do hereafter w^hat I do meanwhile. 

^g^.ji^ Let us concede (gratuitously though) 

^r ' Next life relieves the soul of body, yields 

^: ^ '■ . Pure spiritual enjoyment : well, my friend, 
'M ^^ ^ ' Why lose this life i' the mean time, since its use 
* " ^ ' ^^ May be to make the next life more intense.^ 

Do you know, I have often had a dream 
(Work it up in your next month's article) 
Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still 
Losing true life forever and a day 
; .^'^ 1^^ Through ever trying to be and ever being — - 
tv- ■ In the evolution of successive spheres — 

Befo7'e its actual sphere and place of life, 
A SUPERFLUITY AT Half way into the next, which having reached, 
TiMBucToo. j|- shoots with corresponding foolery 

Half way into the next still, on and off ! 
As when a traveler, bound from North to South, 
Scouts fur in Russia; what's its use in France.^ 
In France spurns flannel ; where's its need in Spain ? 
In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! 
Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, 
A superfluity at Timbuctoo. 

When, through his journey, was the fool at ease } 
I'm at ease now, friend ; worldly in this world, 
I take and like its way of life ; I think 
My brothers, who administer the means, 
Live better for my comfort — that's good too ; 
And God, if he pronounce upon such life, 
Approves my service, which is better still. 
If he keep silence, — why, for you or me 
Or that brute-beast pulled-up in to-day's *' Times," 
What odds is't, save to ourselves, what life we lead ? 






Bishop Blougrams Apology. 377 

You meet me at this issue : you declare, — 
All special-pleading done with, truth is truth, 
And justifies itself by undreamed ways. 
You don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, 
To say so, act up to our truth i)erceived 
However feebly. Do then, — act away ! 
'Tis there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts 
Is, both of us agree, our chief concern : 
And how you'll act is what I fain would see 
If, like the candid person you appear, 
You dare to make the most of your life's scheme 
As I of mine, live up to its full law 
Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. 
Put natural religion to the test 
You've just demolished the revealed with — quick, 
Down to the root of all that checks your will. 
All prohibition to lie, kill, and thieve. 
Or even to be an atheistic priest ! 
Suppose a pricking to incontinence — 
Philosophers deduce you chastity 
Or shame, from just the fact that at the first 
Whoso embraced a woman in the field, 
Threw club down and forewent his brains beside. 
So, stood a ready victim in the reach 
Of any brother-savage, club in hand ; 
Hence saw the use of going out of sight 
In w^ood or cave to prosecute his loves: 
I read this in a French book t'other day. 
Does law so analyzed coerce you much } 
Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end. 
But you who reach where the first thread begins. 
You'll soon cut that ! — which means you can, but won't 
Thi'ough certain instincts, blirid, unreasoned-out. 
You dare not set aside, you can't tell why. 
But there they are, and so you let them rule. 
Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, 
A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, 
Without the good the slave expects to get. 
In case he has a master after all ! 
You own your instincts } wh}', what else do 1, 
WHio want, am made for, and must have a God 
Ere I can be aught, do aught ? — no mere name 
Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth. 
To wit, a relation from that thing to me. 
Touching from head to foot— which touch I feel, 
And with it take the rest, this life of ours ! 
I live my life here : yours you dare not live, 



378 Bishop Blougrarns Apology. 

— Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) 
Disfigure such a hfe and call it names, 
While, to your mind, remains another way 
For simple men : knowledge and power have rights. 
But ignorance and weakness have rights too. 
There needs no crucial effort to find truth 
If here or there or anywhere about : 
We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, 
And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least 
The right, by one laborious proof the more, 
To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. 
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes : 
Something we may see, all w^e cannot see. 
What need of lying } I say, I see all, 
And swear to each detail the most minute 
In what I think a Pan's face — you, mere cloud : 
I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, 
For fear, if once I drop the emphasis. 
Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. 
You take the simple life — ready to see, 
Wilhng to see (for no cloud's w^orth a face) — 
And leaving quiet what no strength can move, 
And which, who bids you move } who has the right } 
I bid you ; but you are God's sheep, not mine : 
" Pastor est tin Doniimisy You find 
In this the pleasant pasture of our life 
Much you may eat without the least offense. 
Much you don't eat because your maw objects, 
Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock 
Open great eyes at you, and even butt, 
And thereupon you like your mates so well 
You cannot please yourself, offending them ; 
Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, 
You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats 
And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears 
Restrain you, real checks since you find them so ; 
Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks : 
And thus you graze through life with not one lie, 
And like it best. 

But do you, in truth's name ? 
If so, you beat — which means you are not I — 
Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill 
Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with. 
But motioned to the velvet of tiie sward 
By those obsequious wethers' very selves. 
Look at me, sir ; my age is double yours; 



Bishop Blougram s Apology, 



379 



At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, 
What now I should be — as, permit the word, 
I pretty well imagine your whole range 
And stretch of tether twenty years to come. 
We have both minds and bodies much alike : 
In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, 
My daily bread, my influence and my state ? 
You're young, I'm old, you must be old one day ; 
Will you find then, as I do hour by hour. 




Women their lovers kneel to. 



Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls 
From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch- 
Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring — 
With much beside you know or may conceive? 
Suppose we die to-night : well, here am I, 
Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, 
W^hile writing all the same my articles 
On music, poetry, the fictile vase 
Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek, 
But you — the highest honor in your life, 
The thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, 
Is — dining here and drinking this last glass 
I pour you out in sight of amity 
Before w^e part forever. Of your pov^er 



380 Bishop Bloitgram s Apology. 

And social influence, worldly worth in short, 
Judge what's my estimation by the fact — 
I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, 
Hint secrecy on one of all these words ! 
You're shrewd and know that should you publish one 
The world would brand the lie — my enemies first, 
Who'd sneer — " the bishop's an arch-hypocrite 
And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." 
Whereas I should not dare for both my ears 
Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, 
Before the chaplain who reflects myself — 
My shade's so much more potent than your fl.esh. 
What's your reward, self-abnegating friend? 
Stood you confessed of those exceptional 
And privileged great natures that dw^arf mine — 
A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, 
A poet just about to print his ode, 
A statesman w'ith a scheme to stop this war. 
An artist wdiose religion is his art — 
I should have nothing to object : such men 
Carry the fire, all things grow warm to them. 
Their drugget's worth my purple, they beat me« 
But you — you're just as little those as I — 
You, Gigadibs, who, thirty years of age. 
Write statedly for Blackwood's Magazine, 
Believe you see two points in Hamlet's soul 
Unseized by the Germans yet — which view you'll print- 
Meantime the best you have to show being still 
That lively lightsome article we took 
Almost for the true Dickens,— what's its name ? 
** The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel Life 
Limned after Dark ! " it made me laugh, I know. 
And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds, 
—Success I recognize and compliment. 
And therefore give you, if you choose, three w^ords 
(The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) 
Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, 
Will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow's wink. 
Such terms as never you aspired to get 
In all our own review^s and some not ours. 
Go wTite your lively sketches ! be the first 
"Blougram, or the Eccentric Confidence " — 
Or better simply say, " The Outward-bound." 
Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth 
As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad 
About me on the church-door opposite. 
You will not wait for that experience though, 



Bishop Blougram s Apology. 381 

I fancy, howsoever you decide, 
To discontinue — not detesting, not 
Defaming, but at least — despising me ! 



Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour 
Sylvester Blougram, styled /;/ partibiis 
Episcopiis, 7iec 7ton — (the deuce knows what 
It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) 
With Gigadibs the literary man, 

Who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, 
And ranged the olive-stones about its ^^^^, 
W^hile the great bishop rolled him out a mind 
Long rumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. 

For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. 
The other portion, as he shaped it thus 
For argumentatory purposes, 
He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. 
Some arbitrary accidental thoughts 
That crossed his mind, amusing because new, 
He chose to represent as fixtures there. 
Invariable convictions (such they seemed 
Beside his interlocutor's loose cards 
Flung daily down, and not the same way twice) 
While certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongue 
Is never bold to utter in their truth 
Because styled hell-deep ('tis an old mistake 
To place hell at the bottom of the earth) 
He ignored these, — not having in readiness 
Their nomenclature and philosophy : 
He said true things, but called them by wrong names. 
*' On the whole," he thought, " I justify myself 
On every point where cavilers like this 
Oppugn my life : he tries one kind of fence, 
I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. 
He's on the ground : if ground should break away 
I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet 
Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. 
His ground was over mine and broke the first : 
So, let him sit with me this many a year ! " 

He did not sit five minutes. Just a week 
Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. 
Something had struck him in the *' Outward-bound " 
Another way than Blougram 's purpose was : 
And having bought, not cabin-furniture 
But settler's implements (enough for three) 



382 Mr\ Sludge, "The Medtumr 

And started for Australia— there, I hope, 
By this time he has tested his first plow. 
And studied his last chapter of Saint John. 

MR. SLUDGE, '' THE MEDIUM." 

Now, don't, sir ! Don't expose me ! Just this once ! 

This was the first and only time, I'll swear, — 

Look at me, — see, I kneel,— the only time, 

I swear, I ever cheated, — yes, by the soul 

Of Her who hears — (your sainted mother, sir !) 

All, except this last accident, was truth — 

This little kind of slip !— and even this, 

It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne 

(I took it for Catawba, you're so kind), 

Which put the folly in my head ! 

"Get up?" 
You still inflict on me that terrible face ? 
You show no mercy? — Not for Her dear sake, 
The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now 
Blows on my cheek — (don't you feel something, sir .^) 
You'll tell ? 

Go tell, then ! Who the Devil cares 
What such a rowdy chooses to . . . 

Aie — aie — aie ! 
Please, sir ! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir ! 
Ch— ch ! 

W^ell, sir, I hope you've done it now! 

Lord ! I little thought, sir, yesterday, 
When your departed mother spoke those words 

Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, 

You gave me — (very kind it was of you) 

These shirt-studs — (better take them back again. 

Please, sir) — yes, little did I think so soon 

A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much 

Of his own champagne, would change my best of fiiends 

Into an angry gentleman ! 

Though, 'twas wrong. 

1 don't contest the point; your anger's just : 
Whatever ])ut such folly in my head, 

I know 'twas wicked of me. There's a thick 
Dusk undeveloped spirit (I've observed) 
Owes me a grudge — a negro's, I should say, 
Or else an Irish emigrant's ; yourself 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium !' 



7:^1 




Please, sir! vour thumbs are through my windpipe, sir! 



Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir, 
A^hen we had summoned Franklin to clear up 
A point about those shares i' the telegraph : 
Ay, and he swore ... or might it be Tom Paine ? . . . 
Thumping the table close by where I crouched. 
He'd do me soon a mischief: that's come true ! 
Why, now your face clears ! I was sure it would ! 
Then, this one time . . . don't take your hand away, 
Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand . . . 
You'll promise to forgive me } — or, at least, 
Tell nobody of this } Consider, sir ! 
What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade 
Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe 
A rap or tip ! What bit of paper's here } 
Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, 
Make the least sign, she urges on her child 
Forgiveness } There now ! Eh ? Oh ! 'Twas your 

foot. 
And not a natural creak, sir ? 



384 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 

Answer, then ! 
Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say " thrice ! " 
All to no use ? No sort of hope for me ? 
It's all to post to Greeley's newspaper ? 

What ? If I told you all about the tricks? 

Upon my soul ! — the whole truth, and naught else, 

And how there's been some falsehood — for your part, 

Will you engage to pay my passage out. 

And hold your tongue until I'm safe on board ? 

England's the place, not Boston — no offense ! 

I see what makes you hesitate ; don't fear ! 

I mean to change my trade and cheat no more, 

Yes, this time really it's upon my soul ! 

Be my salvation ! — under heaven, of course. 

I'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do. 

A trifle, though, to start with ! We'll refer 

The question to this table ? 

How you're changed ! 
Then split the difference ; thirty more, we'll say. 
Ay, but you leave my presents ! Else I'll swear 
*Twas all through those : you wanted yours again, 
So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back ! 
Tread on a worm, it turns, sir ! If I turn, 
Your fault ! 'Tis you'll have forced me ! Who's obliged 
To give up life ye't try no self-defense } 
At all events, I'll run the risk. Eh ? 

Done! 
May I sit, sir ? This dear old table, now ! 
Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar ! 
I've been so happy with you ! Nice stuffed chairs, 
And sympathetic sideboards ; what an end 
To all the instructive evenings ! (It's alight.) 
Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said. 
Here goes, — but keep your temper, or I'll scream ! 

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol ! 

You see, sir, it's your own fault more than mine ; 

It's all your fault, you curious gentlefolk ! 

You're prigs, — excuse me, — like to look so spry, 

So clever, while you cling by half a claw 

To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, 

Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch 

Because you chose it, so it must be safe. 

Oh, otherwise you're sharp enough ! You spy 

Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing, 

Wanting real foothold, — who can't keep upright 



Mr, Sludge, ''The Medmm.'' 385 

On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you : 

There's no outwitting you respecting him ! 

For instance, men love money — that, you know — 

And what men do to gain it: well, suppose 

A poor lad, say a help's son in your house. 

Listening at keyholes, hears the company 

Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth, 

How hard they are to get, how good to hold, 

How much they buy, — if, suddenly, in pops he — 

** /'ve got a V-note ! " — what do you say to him ? 

What's your first word which follows your last kick ? 

" Where did you steal it, rascal ? " That's because 

He finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch, 

Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir. 

Elected your parade-ground : let him try 

Lies to the end of the list, — '* He picked it up, 

His cousin died and left it him by will. 

The President flung it to him, riding by, 

An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair, 

He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched, 

He dug up clay, and out of the clay made gold " — 

How would you treat such possibilities ? 

Would not you, prompt, investigate the case 

With cow-hide? ** Lies, lies, lies," you'd shout: and 

why? 
Which of the stories might not prove mere truth ? 
This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin ! 
Let's see, now, give him me to speak for him ! 
How many of your rare philosophers, 
In plaguy books I've had to dip into. 
Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made, 
And made it ? Oh, with such philosophers 
You're on your best behavior ! While the lad — 
With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods, 
Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize : 
In his case, you hear, judge, and execute, 
All in a breath : so would most men of sense 

But let the same lad hear you talk as grand 
At the same keyhole, you and company, 
Of signs and wonders, the invisible world; 
How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief 
More than our vulgarest credulity ; 
How good men have desired to see a ghost, 
What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did, 
Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee : — 
If he then break in with, ** Sir, / saw a ghost ! " 



3^6 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 

Ah, the ways change ! He finds you perched and 

prim ; 
It's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be : 
There's no talk now of cow-hide. " Tell it out ! 
Don't fear us ! Take your time and recollect ! 
Sit down first ; try a glass of wine, my boy ! 
And, David, (is not that your Christian name ?) 
Of all things, should this happen twice — it may, — 
Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know ! " 
Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that, 
Break down in the other, as beginners will? 
All's candor, all's considerateness, — " No haste! 
Pause and collect yourself ! We understand ! 
That's the bad memory, or the natural shock, 
Or the unexplained ///<f;/^;;/^;/(^ / " 

Egad, 
The boy takes heart of grace, finds, never fear. 
The readiest way to ope your own heart wide, 
Show — what I call your peacock-perch, pet post 
To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon ! 
"Just as you thought, much as you might expect ! 
There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," . . 
And so on. Shall not David take the hint. 
Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate ? 
If he ruffle a feather, it's " Gently, patiently ! 
Manifestations are so weak at first ! 
Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short, 
Cures with a vengeance ! " 

There, sir, that's your style ! 
You and your boy — such pains bestowed on him, 
Or any headpiece of the average worth. 
To teach, say, Greek, would perfect him apace. 
Make him a Person ('* Porson ? " thank you, sir !) 
Much more, proficient in the art of lies 
You never leave the lesson ! Fire alight, 
Catch you permitting it to die ! You've friends ; 
There's no withholding knowledge, — least from those 
Apt to look elsewhere for their soul's supj^ly : 
Why should not you parade your lawful prize ? 
Who finds a picture, digs a medal up. 
Hits on a first edition, — he henceforth 
Gives it his name, grows notable : how much more 
Who ferrets out a " medium "? '' David's yours. 
You highly favored man ? Then, pity souls 
Less privileged ! Allow us share your luck ! " 
So, David holds the circle, rules the roast, 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium^ 387 

Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball, 
Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps, 
As the case may be. 

Now mark ! To be precise ! — 
Though I say, " lies " all these, at this first stage, 
*Tis just for science' sake : I call such grubs 
By the name of what they'll turn to, dragonflies. 
Strictly, it's what good people style untruth ; 
But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing: 
It's fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work, — 
What never meant to be so very bad, — 
The knack of story-telling, brightening up 
Each dull old bit of fact that drops its shine. 
One does see somewhat when one shuts one's eyes. 
If only spots and streaks ; tables do tip 
In the oddest way of themselves : and pens, good Lord, 
Who knows if you drive them or they drive you ? 
'Tis but a foot in the water and out again ; 
Not that duck-under which decides your dive. 
Note this, for it's important : listen why. 

I'll prove, you push on David till he dives 

And ends the shivering. Here's your circle, now : 

Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host. 

Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect, 

"■ Lord, who'd have thought it ! " But there's always one 

Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits 

" Of your veracity no kind of doubt, 

But — do you feel so certain of that boy's } 

Really, I wonder ! I confess myself 

More chary of my faith ! " That's galling, sir ! 

What ! he the investigator, he the sage, 

When all's done } Then, you just have shut your eyes, 

Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole. 

You ! Terrible were such catastrophe ! 

So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again, 

And doubled besides : once more, " He heard, we heard, 

You and they heard, your mother and your wife. 

Your children and the stranger in your gates : 

Did they, or did they not .^ " So much for him. 

The black sheep, guest without the wedding-garb, 

And doubting Thomas ! Now's your turn to crow : 

" He's kind to think you such a fool : Sludge cheats } 

Leave you alone to take precautions! " 

Straight 
The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed, 
Sips silent some such beverage as this, 



388 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 



Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes 
And gulping- David in good fellowship, 
Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange, 
With no egg-nogg to lubricate the food, 
Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way. 
Holds Captain Sparks his court : is it better'there ? 
Have not you hunting-stories, scalping-scenes, 
And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump' 
If you'd be free o' the stove-side, rocking-chair. 
And trio of affable daughters? 

Doubt succumbs ! 
V ictory ! All your circle's yours again ! 
Out of the clubbing of submissive wits, 
David's performance rounds, each chink gets patched 
Every protrusion of a point's hied fine. 
All's fit to set a-rolling round the world, 
And then return to David finally, 
Lies seven feet thick about his first half-inch. 
Here's a choice birth o' the supernatural, 
Poor David's pledged to ! You've employed no tool 
That laws exclaim at, save the Devil's own. 
Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you 
To the top o' your bent,— all out of one half-lie ! 

You hold, if there's one-half or a hundredth part 
Of a he, that's his fault,— his be the penalty ! 
I dare say ! You'd prove firmer in his place? 
You'd find the courage,— that first flurry over, 
That mild bit of romancing-work at end, — 
To interpose with " It gets serious, this ;' 
Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all. 
Inform your friends I made . . . well, fools of them. 
And found you ready made. I've lived in clover 
These three weeks : take it out in kicks of me ! " 
I doubt it. Ask your conscience ! Let me know, 
Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments 
You ve told almighty Boston of this passage 
Of arms between us, your first taste o' the foil 
From Sludge who could not fence, sir ! Sludge, your boy ! 
I lied, sir, — there ! I got up from my gorge 
On offal in the gutter, and preferred 
Your canvas-backs : I took their carver's size, 
Measured his modicum of intelligence, 
Tickled him on the cockles of his heart 
vVith a raven feather, and next week found myself 
Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart, 
Set on a stool buttressed by ladies' knees. 



Mr. Sludge, " The Medium r 389 



Every soft smiler calling me her pet, 

Encouraging m}' story to uncoil 

And creep out from its hole, inch after inch, 

" How last night, I no sooner snug in bed, 

Tucked up, just as they left me, — than came raps ! 

While a light whisked " . . . " Shaped somewhat like a 

star ? " 
" Well, h'ke some sort of stars, ma'am," — " So we thought ! 
And any voice ? Not yet ? Try hard next time, 











Calling me her pet. 

If you can't hear a voice ; we think you may : 

At least, the Pennsylvanian * mediums ' did." 

Oh, next time comes the voice ! " Just as we hoped ! 

Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse 

O' the natural acknowledgment } 

Of course ! 
So, off we push, ill3r-oh-yo, trim the boat, 
On we sweep with a cataract ahead. 
We're midway to the Horse-shoe ; stop, who can, 
The dance of bubbles gay about our prow ! 
Experiences become worth waiting for, 
Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind, 
And compliment the " medium " properly, 



390 



Mr, Sludge^ ^^ IVie Medium '' 




Amonc 



his mates on a bright 
April morn. 



^l^ ' Concern themselves about his 

Sunday coat, 
See rings on his hand with 
pleasure. Ask yourself 
you'd receive a course of 
treats like these ! 
take the quietest hack 
and stall him up, 
him v^dth corn a month, 
then out with him 
V "^A -^^*^^^^-~^ Among his mates on a bright 
^' ^^ ^^ ' April morn, 

With the turf to tread ; see if 

you find or no 
A caper in him, if he l^ucks or 

bolts ! 
Much more a youth whose 
fancies sprout as rank 
As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. 'Tis soon, 
** Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry, 
Read, WTite, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself ! " 
I'm spared all further trouble ; all's arranged ; 
Your circle does my business ; I may rave 
Like an epileptic dervish in the books, 
Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds ; 
No matter: lovers, friends, and countrymen 
Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right 
By the rule o' reverse. If Francis Verulam 
Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside 
With a J/ and a ^, says he drew breath in York, 
Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned 
(As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say, 
Before I found the useful book that know^s), 
Why, what harm's done ? The circle smiles apace, 
" It was not Bacon, after all, do you see ! 
We understand ; the trick's but natural ; 
Such spirits' individuality 
Is hard to put in evidence : they incline 
To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts. 
You see, their world's much like a jail broke loose. 
While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred, 
With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend. 
Serves as this window, whether thin or thick. 
Or stained or stainless ; he's the medium-pane 
Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep : 
They crowd each other, hustle for a chance. 
Tread on their neighbor's kibes, play tricks enough ! 



Mr. Sludge^ ^ ' T/ie Media ;// . " 391 

Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside ? 
Up in his place jumps Barnum — ' I'm your man, 
I'll answer you for Bacon ! ' Try once more ! " 

Or else it's — " What's a ' medium ' ? He's a means, 

Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means 

Spirits can speak by ; he may misconceive, 

Stutter, and stammer, — he's their Sludge and drudge; 

Take him or leave him ; they must hold their peace, 

Or else, put up with having knowledge strained 

To half-expression through his ignorance. 

Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed 

New music he's brimful of ; why, he turns 

The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge, 

And what he poured in at the mouth o' the mill 

As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now !) 

Comes from the hopper as brand-new Sludge, naught else, 

The Shakers' Hymn in G, with a natural F, 

Or the ' Stars and Stripes ' set to consecutive fourths." 

Sir, where's the scrape you did not help me through. 

You that are wise .^ And for the fools, the folk 

Who came to see, — the guests, (observe that word !) 

Pray do you find guests criticise your wine, 

Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose.'^ 

Then, why your " medium " } What's the difference } 

Prove your Madeira red-ink and gamboge, — 

Your Sludge, a cheat — then somebody's a goose 

For vaunting both as genuine. *' Guests ! " Don't fear ! 

They'll make a wry face, not too much of that, 

And leave you in your glory. 

" No, sometimes 
They doubt and say as much ! " Ay, doubt they do ! 
And what's the consequence ? " Of course they doubt " — 
(You triumph) ''that explains the hitch at once! 
Doubt posed our ' medium,' puddled his pure mind ; 
He gave them back their rubbish : pitch chaff in. 
Could flour come out o* the honest mill } " So, prompt 
Applaud the faithful : cases flock in point, 
*' How, w^hen a mocker willed a ' medium ' once 
Should name a spirit James whose name was George, 
' James,' cried the ' medium,' — 'twas the test of truth ! " 
In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more. 
Does this convince ? The better : does it fail } 
Time for the double-shotted broadside, then — 
The grand means, last resource. Look black and big! 
*' You style us idiots, therefore — why stop short .^ 



392 Mr. Shcdge, ''The Medimn 



Accomplices in rascality : this we hear 
In our own house, from our invited guest 
Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy 
Exposed by our good faith ! Have you been heard ? 
Now, then, hear us ; one man's not quite w^orth twelve. 
You see a cheat? Here's some twelve see an ass : 
Excuse me if I calculate : good day ! " 
Out slinks the skeptic, all the laughs explode, 
Sludge waves his hat in triumph ! 

Or — he don't. 
There's something in real truth (explain who can !) 
One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse 
Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't munch 
Because he spies a corn-bag : hang that truth, 
It spoils all dainties proffered in its place ! 
Fve felt at times w4ien, cockered, cosseted, 
And coddled by the aforesaid company,^ 
Bidden enjoy their bullying — never fear, 
But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man,^ 
I've felt a child ; only, a fractious child 
That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother. 
Who keep him from the kennel, sun, and wind, 
Good fun and wholesome mud, — enjoined be sweet, 
And comely and superior, — eyes askance 
The ragged sons o' the gutter at their game. 
Fain would be down with them i' the thick o' the filth. 
Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain, 
And calling granny the gray old cat she is. 
I've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them, 
Huggings and humbug — gnashed my teeth to mark 
A decent dog pass ! It's too bad, I say. 
Ruining a soul so ! 

But what's ** so," what's fixed, 
Where may one stop ? Nowhere ! The cheating's nursed 
Out of the lying, softly and surely spun 
To just your length, sir ! I'd stop soon enough : 
But you're for progress. " All old, nothing new } 
Only the usual talking through the mouth. 
Or writing by the hand } I own, I thought 
This would develop, grow demonstrable. 
Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see. 
Flowers we might touch. There's no one doubts you, 

Sludge ! 
You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights, 
The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute. 
Still, for the skeptics' sake, to stop all mouths. 



Mr. Sludge, ""The Medium'' 393 




r:>. 



Making dirt-pies. 

We want some outward manifestation ! — well, 
The Pennsylvanians gained such ; why not Sludge? 
He may improve with time ! " 

Ay, that he may ! 
He sees his lot : there's no avoiding fate. 
'Ti§ a trifle at tirst. " Eh, David ? Did you hear? 
You jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak, 
This time you're . . . joking, are you not, my boy? " — 
**N-n-no!" — and I'm done for, bought and sold hence- 
forth. 
The old good easy jog-trot way, the ... eh ? 
The . . . not so very false, as falsehood goes, 
The spinning out and drawing fine, you know, — 
Really mere novel-writing of a sort, 
Acting or improvising, make-believe, 
Surely not downright cheatery, — any how, 
*Tis done with and my lot cast ; Cheat's my name : 
The fatal dash of brandy in your tea 
Has settled how you'll have the Souchong smack : 
The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle. 

Then, it's so cruel easy ! Oh, those tricks 

That can't be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand, 

Clearly no common conjurer's ! — no, indeed ! 

A conjurer? Choose me any craft i' the world 



394 ^^' Sludge, ''The Medium. 



A man puts hand to; and with six months' pains, 

I'll play you twenty tricks miraculous 

To people untaught the trade. Have you seen glass 

blown, 
Pipes pierced ? Why, just this biscuit that I chip. 
Did you ever watch a baker toss one flat 
To the oven ? Try and do it ! Take my word, 
Practice but half as much, while limbs are lithe. 
To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints, 
Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright. 
Work wires that twitch the curtains, play the glove 
At end o' your slipper,— then put out the lights 
And . . . there, there, all you want you'll get, I hope ! 
I found it slip, easy as an old shoe. 

Now, lights on table again ! I've done my part, 

You take my place while I give thanks and rest. 

'* Well, Judge Humgrufifin, what's your verdict, sir.^ 

You, hardest head in the United States, — 

Did you detect a cheat here } Wait! Let's see ! 

Just an experiment first, for candor's sake ! 

I'll try and cheat you, Judge ! The table tilts : 

Is it I that move it } Write ! I'll press your hand : 

Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge !" 

Sludge still triumphant ! " That a rap, indeed ? 

That the real writing } Very like a whale ! 

Then, if, sir, you — a most distinguished man. 

And were the Judge not here, I'd say, ... no matter ! 

Well, sir, if you fail, you can't take us in, — 

There's little fear that Sludge will ! " 

Won't he, ma'am } 
But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge, 
Bade God bear witness that he played no trick. 
While you believed that what produced the raps 
Was just a certain child who died, you know. 
And whose last breath you thought'your lips had felt ? 
Eh ? That's a capital point, ma'am : Sludge begins 
At your entreaty with your dearest dead, 
The little voice set lisping once again, 
The tiny hand made feel for yours once more, 
The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams, 
Which image, if a word had chanced recall, 
The customary cloud would cross your eyes. 
Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang ! 
A right mood for investigation, this ! 
One's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan, 
Pompey and Caesar : but one's own lost child . . . 



Mr, Sludge, ''The Mediumr 395 

I wonder, when you beard the first clod drop 

From the spadeful at the grave, did you feel free 

To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf. 

Or brushed your flounces? Then, it came of course 

You should be stunned and stupid ; then (how else ?) 

Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck 

work. 
But now, such causes fail of such effects, 
All's changed — the little voice begins afresh, 
Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try 
And touch the truth. *' Tests ? Didn't the cieature tell 
Its nurse's name, and say it lived six years. 
And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests! 
Sludge never could learn that ! " 

He could not, eh ? 
You compliment him. " Could not ? " Speak for your- 
self ! 
I'd like to know the man I ever saw 
Once — never mind where, how, why, when — once saw, 
Of whom I do not keep some matter treasured 
He'd swear I '* could not " know, sagacious soul ! 
What ? Do you live in this world's blow of blacks. 
Palaver, gossipry, a single hour 
Nor find one smut has settled on your nose, 
Of a smut's worth, no more, no less } — one fact 
Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn 
What someone was, somewhere, somewhen, somcwhy ? 
You don't tell folk — " See what has stuck to me ! 
Judge Humgrufiin, our most distinguished man. 
Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife 
Thought to have married Miggs, missed him, hit you! " 
Do you, sir, though you see him twice a week ? 
** No," you reply, *' what use retailing it ? 
Why should 1 ? " But, you see, one day you should. 
Because one day there's much use — when this fact 
Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees 
Before the supernatural ; proves that Sludge 
Knows, as you say, a thing he " could not " know : 
Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face 
The way the wind drives ? 

'* Could not ! " Look you now, 
I'll tell you a story ! There's a whiskered chap, 
A foreigner, that teaches music here 
And gets his bread — knowing no better way. 
He says, the fellow who informed of him 
And made him fly his country and fall West, 



396 



Mr, Sludge, "The Medium^ 



Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles, and sang, 
In some outlandish place, the city of Rome, 
In a cellar by their Broadway, all day long ; 
Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look, 
Nor lifted nose from lapstone; let the world 
Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in 




There's a whiskered chap. 



,V(>1 



The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up. 

Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay, 

And took his praise from government, you see ; 

For something like two dollars every week, 

He'd engage tell you some one little thing 

Of some one man, which led to many more 

(Because one truth leads right to the world's end), 

And make you that man's master — when he dined 

And on what dish, where walked to keep his health, 

And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus 

His sense out, like an anteater's long tongue. 

Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible. 

And when 'twas crusted o'er with creatures — slick. 

Their juice enriched his palate. " Could not Sludge ! " 

I'll go yet a step farther, and maintain, 

Once the imposture plunged its proper depth 

r the rotten of your natures, all of you — 

(If one's not mad nor drunk, and hardly then). 

It's impossible to cheat — that's, be found out ! 

Go tell your brotherhood this first slip of mine, 

All to-day's tale, how you detected Sludge, 



Mr. Sludge^ ^^ The Medium.'' 397 



Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess, 

And so has come to grief ! You'll find, I think, * 

Why Sludge still snaps his fingers in } our face. 

There now, you've told them ! What's their prompt 

reply ? 
'' Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me, 
I'd disbelieve him. He may cheat at times ; 
That's in the ' medium ' nature, thus they're made, 
Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch. 
And so all cats are ; still a cat's the beast 
You coax the strange electric sparks from out, 
By rubbing back its fur : not so a dog. 
Nor lion, nor lamb :. 'tis the cat's nature, sir ! 
Why not the dog's .> Ask God, who made them beasts ! 
D'ye think the sound, the nicely balanced man 
Like, me " — (aside) — '* like you yourself," — (aloud) 
— " He's stuff to make a * medium ' } Bless your soul, 
'Tis these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs. 
Equivocal, worthless'vermin yield the fire ! 
We must take such as we find them, 'ware their tricks, 
W^anting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you— 
How% I can't say, not being there to watch : ' 
He was tried, was tempted by your easiness, — 
He did not take in me ! " 

Thank you for Sludge ! 
I'm to be grateful to such patrons, eh, 
When what you hear's my best word } 'Tis a challenge : 
'• Snap at all strangers, half-tamed prairie-dog, 
So you cower duly at your keeper's nod ! 
Cat, show what claws'were made for, muffling them 
Only to me ! Cheat others if you can. 
Me, if you dare ! " And, my wise sir, I dared — 
Did cheat you first, made you cheat others next. 
And had the help o' your vaunted manliness 
To bully the incredulous. You used me ? 
Have not I used you, taken full revenge, 
Persuaded folk they knew not their own name, 
And straight they'd owm the error ! Who was the fool 
When, to an awe-struck wide-ej^ed open-mouthed 
Circle of sages. Sludge would introduce 
Milton composing baby-rhymes, and Locke 
Reasoning in gibberish, Homer writing Greek 
In naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalms 
To crotchet and quaver } I've made a spirit squeak 
In sham voice for a minute, then outbroke 
Bold in my own, defying the imbeciles — 
Have copied some ghost's pothooks, half a page, 



398 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium r 

Then ended with my own scrawl undisguised. 

" All right ! The ghost was merely using Sludge, 

Suiting itself from his imperfect stock !" 

Don't talk of gratitude to me ! For what ? 

For being treated as a showman's ape, 

Encouraged to be wicked and make sport, 

Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any mood 

So long as the ape be in it and no man — 

Because a nut pay's every mood alike. 

Curse your superior, superintending sort, 

Who, since you hate smoke, send up boys that climb 

To cure your chimney, bid a " medium " lie 

To sweep you truth down ! Curse your women too. 

Your insolent wiv^es and daughters, that lire up 

Or faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs, 

Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with Sludge 

As only a ** medium," only the kind of thing 

They must humor, fondle . . . oh, to misconceive 

Were too preposterous ! But I've paid them out! 

They've had their wish — called for the naked truth, 

And in she tripped, sat dow^n, and bade them stare : 

They had to blush a little and forgive ! 

" The fact is, children talk so ; in next world 

All our conventions are reversed, — perhaps 

Made light of : something like old prints, my dear ! 

The Judge has one, he brought from Italy, 

A metropolis in the background, — o'er a bridge, 

A team of trotting roadsters, — cheerful groups 

Of wayside travelers, peasants at their work, 

And, full in front, quite unconcerned, why not? 

Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier, 

And never a rag among them : ' fine,' folk cry — 

And heavenly manners seem not much unlike ! 

Let Sludge go on : we'll fancy it's in print ! " 

If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn, 

Where is the wrong I did them } 'Twas their choice : 

They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up 

And lost, as someone's sure to do in games ; 

They fancied I was made to lose,— smoked glass 

Useful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes : 

And had I proved a red-hot iron plate 

They thought to pierce, and, for their pains, grew blind, 

Whose were the fault but theirs.^ While, as things go. 

Their loss amounts to gain, the more's the shame ! 

They've had their peep into the spirit-world. 

And all this world may know it ! They've fed fat 

Their self-conceit which else had starved : what chance 



Mr, Sludge, ''The Medium:' 399 



Save this, of cackling- o'er a golden egg- 

And compassing distinction from the flock, 

Friends of a feather ? Well, they paid for it, 

And not prodigiously; the price o' the play, 

Not counting certain pleasant interludes, 

Was scarce a vulgar play's worth. When you buy 

The actor's talent, do you dare propose 

For his soul beside ? Whereas, my soul you buy ! 

Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth 

Or you'll not hear his first word ! Just go through 

That slight formality, swear himself's the Thane, 

And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour, 

Spout, spraw^l, or spin his target, no one cares ! 

Why hadn't I leave to play tricks, Sludge as Sludge? 

Enough of it all ! Fve wiped out scores with you — 

Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked 

Like tom-fool with your ochre and carmine, 

Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed 

To metamorj')hose somebody, — yes, Fve earned 

My WMges, swallowed down my bread of shame, 

And shake the crumbs off — where but in your face ? 

As for religion— why, I served it, sir ! 
FU stick to that ! With my pheiioviena 
I laid the atheist sprawling on his back, 
Propped up St. Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg ! 
In fact, it's just the proper way to balk 
These troublesome fellows— liars, one and all, 
Are not these skeptics ? Well, to baffle them, 
No use in being squeamish : lie yourself! 
Erect your buttress just as w-ide o' the line. 
Your side, as they've built up the w^all on theirs; 
Where both meet, midw^ay in a point, is truth. 
High overhead : so, take your room, pile bricks, 
Lie ! Oh, there's titillation in all shame ! 
What snow may lose in white, it gains in rose ! 
Miss Stokes turns^Rahab, — nor a bad exchange ! 
Glory be on her, for the good she wrought, 
Breeding belief anew 'neath ribs of death, 
Brow-beating now^ the unabashed before. 
Ridding us of their whole life's gathered straws 
By a live coal from the altar ! Why, of old. 
Great men spent years and years in writing books 
To prove we've souls, and hardly proved it then : 
Miss Stokes w'ith her live coal, for you and me! 
Surely, to this good issue, all was fair — 
Not only fondling Sludge, but, even suppose 



400 Mr. Sludge, '' The Medium:' 

He let escape some spice of knavery, — well, 

In wisely being blind to it ! Don't you praise 

Nelson for setting spyglass to blind eye 

And saying . . . what was it — that he could not see 

The signal he was bothered with ? Ay, indeed ! 

ril go beyond : there's a real love of a lie, 

Liars find ready-made for lies they make, 

As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum. 

At best, 'tis never pure and full belief ; 

Those farthest in the quagmire, don't suppose 

They strayed there with no warning, got no chance 

Of a filth-speck in their face, which they clinched teeth, 

Bent brow against ! Be sure they had their doubts. 

And fears, and fairest challenges to try 

The floor o' the seeming solid sand! But no ! 

Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised. 

All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved, 

And Sludge called " pet : " 'twas easier marching on 

To the promised land ; join those who, Thursday next, 

Meant to meet Shakspere ; better follow Sludge — 

Prudent, oh sure ! — on the alert, how else ? 

But making for the mid-bog, all the same ! 

To hear your outcries, one would think I caught 

Miss Stokes by the scuff o' the neck, and pitched her flat, 

Foolish-face-foremost ! Hear these simpletons. 

That's all I beg, before my work's begun. 

Before I've touched them with my finger-tip ! 

Thus they await me (do but listen, now ! 

It's reasoning, this is, — I can't imitate 

The baby voice, though) ** In so many tales 

Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big, 

Yet some : a single man's deceived, perhaps — 

Hardly, a thousand : to suppose one cheat 

Can gull all these, were more miraculous far 

Than aught we should confess a miracle" — 

And so on. Then the Judge sums up — (it's rare) 

Bids you respect the authorities that leap 

To the judgment-seat at once, — why, don't you note 

The limpid nature, the unblemished life. 

The spotless honor, indisputable sense 

Of the first upstart with his story? What — 

Outrage a boy on whom you ne'er till now 

Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him ? 

Fools, these are : ay, and how of their opposites 
Who never did, at bottom of their hearts, 
Believe for a moment .^~Men emasculate, 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Mediufn'' \b\ 



Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use, 
With superstition safely, — cold of blood, 
Who saw what made for them i' the mystery. 
Took their occasion, and supported Sludge 
— As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd ! 
— But promisers of fair play, encouragers 
O' the claimant ; who in candor needs must hoist 
Sludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of Sludge 
To carry off, criticise, and cant about ! 
Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so ? — at any rate, 
It's ** a new thing," philosophy fumbles at. 
Then there's the other picker out of pearl 
From dung-heaps, — ay, your literary man. 
Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge 
Daintily and discreetly, — shakes a dust 
O' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how, 
The narrative or the novel, — half-believes. 
All for the book's sake, and the public stare, 
And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world ! 
Look at him ! Try to be too bold, too gross 
For the master ! Not you ! He's the man for muck ; 
Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brown 
Into artistic richness, never fear ! 
Find him the crude stuff ; when you recognize 
Your lie again, you'll doff your hat to it. 
Dressed out for company ! ** For company," 
I say, since there's the relish of success : 
Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth. 
Save the soft, silent, smirking gentleman 
Who ushered in the stranger : you must sigh 
"How melancholy, he, the only one 
Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth 
Himself gave birth to !" — There's the triumph's smack ! 
That man would choose to see the whole world roll 
r the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tip 
Of his brush with what I call the best of browns- 
Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power 
Of the out-worn umber and bistre ! 

Yet I think 
There's a more hateful form of foolery — 
The social sage's, Solomon of saloons 
And philosophic diner-out, the fribble 
Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block 
To try the edge of his faculty upon. 
Prove how much common sense he'll hack and hew 
r the critical minute 'twixt the soup and tish ! 
These were my patrons : these, and the like of them 



402 



Mr. Sludge, '' The Mediitinr 



% Z 



^ 





Philo^ 



NER-i-LT. 



Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it, — 

These I have injured ! Gratitude to these ? 

The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute 

To the greenhorn and the bully — friends of hers, 

From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club, 

To the snuff-box-decorator, honest man. 

Who just was at his wit's end where to find 

So genial a Pasiphae ! All and each 

Pay, compliment, protect from the police. 

And how she hates them for their pains, like me! 

So much for my remorse at thanklessiiess 

Toward a deserving public I 

But, for God ? 
Ay, that's a question ! Well, sir, since you press — 
(How you do tease the whole thing out of me ! 
1 don't mean you, you know, when I say, " them : " 
Hate you, indeed ! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge / 
Enough, enough— with sugar: thank you, sir!) 
Now for it then ! W^ill you believe me, though? 
You've heard what I confess; I don't unsay 
A single word : I cheated when I could, 
Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at w^ork, 
W^rote down names weak in sympathetic ink. 
Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match, 
And all the rest ; believe that : believe this. 
By the same token, though it seem to set 
The crooked straight again, unsay the said, 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 403 

Stick up what I've thrown down; I can't help that, 

It's truth ! I somehow vomit truth to-day. 

This trade of mine — I don't know, can't be sure 

But there was something in it, tricks and all ! 

Really, 1 want to light up my own mind. 

They were tricks, — truth, but what I mean to add 

Is also true. First, — don't it strike you, sir? 

Go back to the beginning, — the first fact 

We're taught is, there's a world beside this world, 

With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry ; 

That much w-ithin that world once sojourned here. 

That all upon this world will visit there, 

And therefore that we, bodily here below. 

Must have exactly such an interest 

In learning what may be the ways o' the world 

Above us, as the disembodied folk 

Have (by all analogic likelihood) 

In watching how things go in the old world 

With us, their sons, successors, and what not. 

Oh, yes, with added powers probably. 

Fit for the novel state, — old loves grown pure, 

Old interests understood aright,— they watch ! 

Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help. 

Proportionate to advancement : they're ahead, 

That's all — do what we do, but noblier done — 

Use plate, w^hereas we eat our meals off delf 

(To use a hgure). 

Concede tliat, and I ask 
Next what may be the mode of intercourse 
Between us men here, and those once-men there } 
First comes the Bible's speech ; then, history 
With the supernatural element, — you know — 
All that we sucked in with our mother's milk, 
Grew up \vith, got inside of us at last. 
Till it's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh. 
See now, we start with the miraculous. 
And know it used to be, at all events : 
What's the first step we take, and can't but take. 
In arguing' from the known to the obscure } 
Why, this : " What was before may be to-day. 
Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul, — of course 
My brother's spirit may appear to me." 
Go tell your teacher that ! What's his reply? 
What brings a shade of doubt for the first time 
O'er his brow late so luminous with faith ? 
" Such things have been," says he, ** and there's no doubt 
Such things may be : but I advise mistrust 



404 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 



Of eyes, ears, stomach, — more than all, of brain, 

Unless it be of your great-grandmother, 

Whenever they propose a ghost to you ! " 

The end is, there's a composition struck ; 

'Tis settled, we've some way of intercourse 

Just as in Saul's time ; only, different : 

How, when, and where, precisely, — find it out ! 

I want to know, then, what's so natural 

As that a person born into this world 

And seized on by such teaching, should begin 

With firm expectancy and a frank look-out 

For his own allotment, his especial share 

r the secret, — his particular ghost, in fine ? 

I mean a person born to look that way, 

Since natures differ : take the painter-sort. 

One man lives fifty years in ignorance 

Whether grass be green or red, — " No kind of eye 

For color," say you ; while another picks 

And puts away even pebbles, when 
a child, 

Because of bluish spots and pinky 
veins — 

** Give him forthwith a paint-box ! " 
Just the same 

W^as I born ..." medium," you 
won't let me say, — 

W^ell, seer of the supernatural 

Every when, everyhow, and every- 
where, — 

Will that do ? 




*' Give him forthwith 
paint-box ! " 



I and all such boys of course 
Started with the same stock of Bible-truth ; 
Only, — what iii the rest you style their sense. 
Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative. 
This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law 
And ours another : ** New world, new laws," cried they : 
" None but old laws, seen everywhere at work," 
Cried I, and by their help ex])lained my life 
The Jews' way, still a working way to me. 
Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights, 
Or Santa Claus slid down on New-Year's Eve 
And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed. 
Changed the w^orn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate 
O' the sum that came to grief the day before. 

This could not last long: soon enough I found 
Who had v.'orked wonders thus, and to what end : 



Mr. Studge, " The Medium:' 40^ 





\ 



Fairies waved the lights. 

But did I find all easy, like my mates ? 

Henceforth no supernatural any more ? 

Not a whit : what projects the billiard-balls? 

" A cue," you answer : " Yes, a cue," said I ; 

** But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue? 

What unseen agency, outside the world. 

Prompted its puppets to do this and that. 

Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind, 

These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters ? " 

Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since. 

Just so I reason, in sober earnest still. 

About the greater godsends, what you call 

The serious gains and losses of my life. 

What do I know or care about your world 

Which either is or seems to be ? This snap 

O' my fingers, sir ! My care is for myself ; 

Myself am whole and sole reality 

Inside a raree-show and a market-mob 

Gathered about it: that's the use of things. 

'Tis easy saying they serve vast purposes, 



4o6 



Air, Sludge, ''The Medium:' 



Advcintage their grand selves : be it true or false, 

Each thing may have two uses. What's a star? 

A world, or a world's sun: doesn't it serve 

As taper also, time-piece, weather-glass. 

And almanac ? Are stars not set for signs 

When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees ^ 

The Bible says so. 

Well, I add one use 
To all the acknowledged uses, and declare 
If I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night, 
It warns me, " Go, nor lose another day, 
And have your hair cut. Sludge ! " You laugh : and why ? 
Were such a sign too hard for God to give ? 
No : but Sludge seems too little for such grace : 
Thank you, sir ! So you think, so does not Sludge ! 
When you and good men gape at Providence, 
Go into history and bid us mark 
Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns 
Kept on kings' heads by miracle enough. 
But private mercies — oh, you've told me, sir, 
Of such interpositions ! How yourself 
Once, missing on a memorable day 
Your handkerchief — just setting out, you know, — 
You must return to fetch it, lost the train, 
And saved your precious self from what befell 
The thirty-three whom Providence forgot. 
You tell, and ask me what I think of this ? 
Well, sir, I think, then, since you needs must know, 
What matter had you and Boston City to boot 
Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings } Much 
To you, no doubt : for me — undoubtedly 

The cutting of my hair concerns me more, 
^, ....,.«««^^s®^^ Because, however sad the truth may seem, 

- Sludge is of all-importance to himself. 

F* You set apart that day in every year 

\ For special thanksgiving, were a heathen 

,. -,, else : 

■ IT Well- I who cannot boast the like escape, 

Suppose I said '' I 
don't thank Provi- 
dence 
For my part, owing it 

no gratitude " } 
" Nay, but you owe 
as much" — you'd 
tutor me, 




Wheke the pigeon,^ 



Mr. Sludge, "The Medium^ 407 

You, every man alive, for blessings gained 

In every hour o' the day, could you but know ! 

I saw my crowning mercy : all have such, 

Could they but see ! " Well, sir, why don't they see? 

" Because they won't look.— or perhaps they can't." 

Then, so, suppose I can, and will, and do 

Look, microscopically as is right. 

Into each hour with its infinitude 

Of influences at work to profit Sludge ? 

For that's the case : I've sharpened up my sight 

To spy a providence in the fire's going out, 

The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking; fast 

Despite the hole i' the pocket. Call such facts 

Fancies, too petty a work for Providence, ' 

And those same thanks which you exact from me, 

Prove too prodigious payment : thanks for what, 

If nothing- guards and guides us little men } 

No, no, sir ! You must put away your pride, 

Resolve to let Sludge into partnership ! 

I live by signs and omens : look at the roof 

Where the pig-eons settle — *' If the father bird, 

The white, takes wing first, I'll confess when thrashed ; 

Not, if the blue does " — so I said to myself 

Last week, lest you should take me by sur[)rise : 

Off flapped the white, — and I'm confessing, sir! 

Perhaps 'tis Providence's whim and way 

With only me, i' the world : how^ can you tell ? 

** Because unlikely ! " Was it likelier, now, 

That this our one out of all worlds beside, 

The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be just 

Precisely chosen to make Adam for. 

And the rest o' the tale } Yet the tale's tiue, you know 

Such undeserving- clod was graced so once ; 

Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge } 

Are w^e merit-mongeis, flaunt we filthy rags } 

All you can bring against my privilege 

Is, that another way was taken with you, — 

Which I don't question. It's pure grace, my luck. 

I'm broken to the way of nods and winks, 

And need no formal summoning. You've a help ; 

Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands, 

Stamp with your foot or pull the bell : all's one 

He understands you want him, here he comes. 

Just so, I come at the knocking ; you, sir, wait 

The tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catch 

Reason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk. 

Or that traditional pe^d was wont to cheer 



4o8 Mr. Sludge, '' The Mediumr 

Your mother's face turned heavenward: short of these 

There's no authentic intimation, eh ? 

Well, when you hear, you'll answ^er them, start up 

And stride into the presence, top of toe, 

And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprung 

At noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall! 

I think myself the more religious man. 

Religion's all or nothing; it's no mere smile 

O' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir — 

No quality o' the linelier-tempered clay 

Like its whiteness or its lightness ; rather, stuff 

O' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self. 

I tell you, men w^on't notice ; when they do, 

They'll understand. I notice nothing else, 

I'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape, 

Nothing eludes me, everything's a hint. 

Handle, and help. It's all absurd, and yet 

There's something in it all, I know : how much ? 

No answer! What does that prove ? Man's still man 

Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work 

When all's done ; but, if somewhat's done like this. 

Or not done, is the case the same ? Suppose 

I blunder in my guess at the true sense 

O' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten, — 

What if the tenth guess happen to be right ? 

If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz 

Yield me the nugget ? I gather, crush, sift all. 

Pass o'er the failure, pounce on the success. 

To give you a notion, now — (let who wins, laugh !) 

When first I see a man, what do I first ? 

Why, count the letters which make up his name, 

And as their number chances, even or odd. 

Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course : 

Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name, 

And haven't I found a patron, sir, in you ? 

*' Shall I cheat this stranger ? " I take apple-pips. 

Stick one in either caiithiis of my eye. 

And if the left drops first — (your left, sir, stuck) 

I'm w^arned, I let the trick alone this time. 

You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash, 

You judge of character by other rules : 

Don't your rules sometimes fail you ? Pray, what rule 

Have you judged Sludge by hitherto ? 

Oh, be sure, 
You, everybody blunders, just as I, 
In simpler things than these by far ! For see : 
I knew^ two farmers, — one, a wiseacre 



Mr, 



Sludge^ 



The Medium.'' 



409 



Who studied seasons, rummaged 

almanacs, 
Quoted the dew-point, registered 

the frost, 
And then declared, for outcome 

of his pains. 
Next summer must be dampish : 



His 



twas a drought. 



neighbor 



su 



ch 



cent. 



how 



late 




One brindled heifer. 



prophesied 
drought would fall. 

Saved hay and corn, made 
per cent, thereby, 

And proved a sage indeed : 
came his lore ? 

Because one brindled heifer, 
in March, 

Stiffened her tail of evenings, and 
somehow 

He got into his head that drought was meant ! 
I don't expect all men can do as much : 
Such kissing goes by favor. You must take 
A certain turn of mind for this, — a twist 
I' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive. 
Open-mouthed, like my friend the anteater, 
Letting all nature's loosely guarded motes 
Settle and, slick, be swallowed ! Think yourself 
The one i' the world, the one for whom the world 
Was made, expect it tickling at your mouth ! 
Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies, 
Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive, 
Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough. 
I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir ! 
Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way, 
Close converse, frank exchange of offices, 
Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great 
With the infinitely small, betokened here 
By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks, — 
How does it suit the dread traditional text 
O' the ** Great and Terrible Name " ? Shall the Heaven 

of heavens 
Stoop to such child's play ? 

Please, sir, go with me 
A moment, and I'll try to answer you. 
The ''Magnum et terribile " (is that right }^ 
Well, folk began with this in the early day ; 
And all the acts they recognized in proof 
Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt 



4IO 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium: 



Indisputably on men whose 

death they caused. 
There, and there only, folk 

saw Providence 
At work, — and seeing it, 

'twas right enough 
All heads should tremble, 
hands wring haiuls 
amain, 
And knees knock hard to- 
gether at the breath 
O' the Name's tirst letter ; 
why, the Jews, I'm told. 
Won't write it down, no, to 

this very hour, 
Nor speak aloud : you know 

best if t be so. 
Each ague-fit of fear at end, 

they crept 
(Because somehow people 

once born must live) 
Out of the sound, sight, 
swing, and sway o' the 
Name, 
Into a corner, the dark rest 

of the world, 
And safe space where as yet 

no fear had reached ; 
'Twas there they looked 
about them, breathed 
again. 

And felt indeed at home, as we might say. 
The current o' common things, the daily life, 
This had their due contempt ; no Name pursued 
Man from the mountain-top where tires abide, 
To his particular mouse-hole at its foot 
Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short : 
Such was man's vulgar business, far too small 
To be worth thunder : " small," folk kept on, " small," 
With much complacency in those great days ! 
A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass— 
What was so despicable as mere grass, 
Except perhaps the life o' the worm or fly 
Which fed there ? These were " small " and men were 




^k^-^ 



Talk of mountains now? 



Well, sir, the old way's altered somewhat since. 
And the world wears another aspect now : 



Air. Sludge, ''The Mediumr 411 



Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else 

Puts a new lens in it : grass, worm, fly grow big : 

We find great things are made of little things. 

And little things go lessening till at last 

Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now ? 

We talk of mold that heaps the mountain, mites 

That throng the mold, and God that makes the mites. 

The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst, 

The simplest of creations, just a sac 

That's mouth, heart, legs, and belly at once, vet lives 

And feels, and could do neither, we conclude," 

If simplified still further one degree ; 

The small becomes the dreadful and immense ! 

Lightning, forsooth ? No word more upc^n that ? 

A tm-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk, 

With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there's 

Your dollar's worth of lightning! But the cyst— 

The life of the least of the little things ? 

-^ , No, no ! 

Freachers and teachers try another tack, 

Come near the truth this time : they put aside 

Thunder and lightning: '' That's mistake," they cry, 

*' Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport, 

But do appreciable good, like tides. 

Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts— 

* Good ' meaning good to man, his body or soul. 

Mediate, immediate, all things minister 

To man,— that's settled : be our future text 

' We are His children ! ' " So, they now harangue 

About the intention, the contrivance, all 

That keeps up an incessant play of love,— 

See the Bridgewater book. 

Amen to it ! 
Well, sir, I put this question : I'm a child? 
I lose no time, but take you at your word : 
How shall I act a child's part properly ? 
Your sainted mother, sir,— used you to live 
With such a thought as this a-wonying you? 
"She has it in her power to throttle'me. 
Or stab or poison : she may turn me out, 
Or lock me in,— nor stop at this to-day, 
But cut me off to-morrow from the estate 
I look for "—(long may you enjoy it, sir !) 
*' In brief, she may unchild the child I am." 
You never had such crotchets ? Nor have I ! 
Who, frank confessing childship from the first, 



4 1 2 Mr. Sludge, '' The Medium. " 

Cannot both fear and take my ease at once, 

So, don't fear, — know what might be, well enough, 

But know too, childlike, that it W\\\ not be, 

At least in my case, mine, the son and heir 

O' the Kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style. 

But do you fancy I stop short at this? 

Wonder if suit and service, son and heir 

Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find ? 

If, looking for signs proper to such an one, 

I straight perceive them irresistible ? 

Concede that homage is a son's plain right. 

And, never mind the nods and raps and winks, 

'Tis the pure obvious supernatural 

Steps forward, does its duty : why, of course ! 

I have presentiments ; my dreams come true: 

I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white 

Blithe as a bob'link, and he's dead I learn. 

I take dislike to a dog my favorite long. 

And sell him : he goes mad next week, and snaps. 

I guess that stranger will turn up to-day 

I have not seen these three years : there's his knock. 

I wager " sixty peaches on that tree ! " — 

That I pick up a dollar in my walk, 

That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George- 

And win on all points. Oh ! you wince at this } 

You'd fain distinguish between gift and gift, 

Washington's oracle and Sludge's itch 

O' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump? 

With Sludge it's too absurd ? Fine, draw the li)ie 

Somewhere ; but, sir, your somewhere is not mine ! 

Bless us, I'm turning poet ! It's time to end. 

How have you drawn me out, sir ! All I ask 

Is— am I heir or not heir? If I'm he. 

Then, sir, remember, that same personage 

(To judge by what we read i' the newspaper) 

Requires, beside one nobleman in gold 

To carry up and down his coronet, 

Another serv^ant, probably a duke. 

To hold egg-nogg in readiness : why want 

Attendance, sir, when helps in his father's house 

Abound, I'd like to know? 

Enough of talk ! 
JVIy fault is that I tell too plain a truth. 
Why, which of those who say they disbelieve, 
Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream. 
Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact 
He can't explain (he'll tell you smilingly), 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Mediumr 413 







Bless us, I'm turning poet ! 

Which he's too much of a philosopher 

To count as supernatural, indeed, 

So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it : 

Bidding you still be on your guard, you know, 

Because one fact don't make a system stand, 

Nor prove this an occasional escape 

Of spirit beneath the matter : that's the way ! 

Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece, 

The fact in California, the fine gold 

That underlay the gravel— hoarded these, 

But never made a system stand, nor dug! 

So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm 

A handful of experience, sparkling fact 

They can't explain ; and since their rest of life 

Is all explainable, what proof in this ? 

Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold. 

And fling away the dirty rest of life, 

And add this grain to the grain each fool has found 

O' the million other such philosophers, — 

Till I see gold, all gold and only gold, 

Truth questionless though unexplainable. 

And the miraculous proved the commonplace ! 

The other fools believed in mud, no doubt, — 

Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange ? 

Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues, 

" Time " with the fofl in carte, jump their own height, 



414 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium. 





Wild Indians picked up, piece by piece, 
. . . the fine gold. 

Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five, 
Make the red hazard with the cue, chp nails 
While swimming, in five minutes row a mile, 
Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm. 
Do sums of fifty figures in their head, 
And so on, by the scores of instances? 
The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts, 
His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank 
With these, and share the advantage. 

Ay, but share 
The drawback I Think it over by yourself : 
I have not heart, sir, and the fire's gone gray. 
Defect somewhere compensates for success. 
Everyone knows that. Oh, we're equals, sir! 
The big-legged fellow^ has a little arm 
And a less brain, though big legs win the race: 
Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot } 
Say, I was born with flesh so sensitive. 
Soul so alert, that, practice helping both, 
I guess what's going on outside the veil, 
Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time 
In the islands where his kind are, so must fall 
To capering by himself some shiny night, 
As if your back-yard were a plot of spice — 
Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world : while you 
Blind as a beetle that way, — for amends, 
Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir! 



Mr, Sludge, ''The Medium^ 415 

Ride that hot hardinouthed horrid horse of yours, 

Laugh while it h'ghtens, play with the great dog, 

Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear, 

Never brag, never bluster, never bkish, — 

In short, you've pluck, when I'm a coward — there ! 

I know it, I can't help it, — folly or no, 

I'm paralyzed, my hand's no more a hand, 




Play with the great dog. 

Nor my head, a head, in danger : you can smile, 

And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift's not 

mine. 
Would you swap for mine ? No ! but you'd add my gift 
To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times, 
Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch, 
Kept cool wdien threatened, did not mind so much 
Being dressed gayly, making strangers stare, 
Eating nice things ; when I'd amuse myself, 
I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain, 
I'm — now the President, now, Jenny Lind, 
Now, Emerson, now% the Benicia Boy— 
With all the civilized world a-wondering 
And worshiping. I know it's folly and worse; 
I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul : 
But I can't cure myself, — despond, despair, 
And then, hey, presto, there's a turn o' the wheel, 



4i6 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:* 

Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends ; 
Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things 
You all are blind to, — I've my taste of truth. 
Likewise my touch of falsehood, — vice no doubt, 
But you've your vices also : I'm content. 

What, sir ? You won't shake hands ? " Because I 

cheat ! " 
*' You've found me out in cheating ! " That's enough 
To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat, 
Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught m the act. 
Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact ? 
(There's verse again, but I'm inspired somehow.) 
Well then I'm not sure! I may be, perhaps, 
Free as a babe from cheating: how it.began, 
]\Iy gift, — no matter; wdiat 'tis got to be 
In the end now, that's the question ; answer that ! 
Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine, 
Leading me whither, I had died of fright. 
So, I was made believe I led myself. 
If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof 
To roof, you would not cross the street, one step. 
Even at your mother's summons ; but, being shrewd, 
If I paste paper on each side the plank. 
And swear 'tis solid pavement, why, you'll cross 
Humming a tune the while, in ignorance 
Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below : 
I walked thus, took the 4)aper-cheat for stone. 
Some impulse made me set a thing o' the move 
Which, started once, ran really by itself; 
Beer flows thus, suck the siphon ; toss the kite, 
It takes the wind and floats of its own force. 
Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lack 
Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it ! 
Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen. 
She'll lay a real one, laudably deceived, 
Daily for weeks to come. I've told my lie, 
And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine; 
All was not cheating, sir, I'm positive ! 
I don't know if I move your hand sometimes 
When the spontaneous writing spreads so far, 
If my knee lifts the table all that height, 
Why the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt, 
Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz 
Than I can pick out on the pianoforte. 
Why I speak so much more than I intend, 
Describe so many things I never saw\ 



Mr. 



Sludge^ 



The Medium. 



417 



I tell you, sir, in one sense, 1 believe 
Nothing- at all, — that everybody can, 
Will, and does cheat : but in another sense 
Pm ready to believe my very self — 
That every cheat's inspired, and every lie 
Quick with a germ of truth. 

You ask perhaps 
Why I should condescend to trick at all 
If I know a way without it ? This is why ! 




Isn't it Herodotus. 

There's a strange, secret, sweet self-sacrifice 

In any desecration of one's soul 

To a worthy end, — isn't it Herodotus 

(I wish I could read Latin!) who describes 

The single gift o' the land's virginity. 

Demanded in those old Egyptian rites, 

(I've but a hazy notion — help me, sir !) 

For one purpose in the world, one day in a life, 

One hour in a day — thereafter, purity, 

And a veil thrown o'er the past for evermore ! 

Well now, they understood a many things 

Down by Nile city, or wherever it was ! 

IVe always vowed, after the minute's lie, 



4i8 M}\ Sludge, ''The Medtmnr 

And the end's gain, — truth should be mine henceforth. 
This goes to the root o* the matter, sir, — this plain 
Plump fact : accept it, and unlock with it 
The wards of many a puzzle ! 

Or, finally, 
Why should I set so fine a gloss on things ? 
What need I care ? I cheat in self-defense, 
And there's my answer to a world of cheats ! 
Cheat ? To be sure, sir ! What's the world worth else ? 
Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars ? 
Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing up 
And polishing over ? Your so-styled great men. 
Do they accept ore truth as truth is found. 
Or try their skill at tinkering ? What's your world ? 
Here are you born, who are, I'll say at once. 
Of the luckiest whether as to head and heart, 
Body and soul, or all that helps the same. 
Well, now, look back : what faculty of yours 
Came to its full, had ample justice done 
By growing when rain fell, biding its time. 
Solidifying growth when earth was dead. 
Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due ? 
Never ! You shot up and frost nipped you off. 
Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout; 
One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end. 
All you boast is, " I had proved a topping tree 
In other climes " — yet this was the right clime, 
Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you've force 
Wasted like well-streams : old — oh, then indeed. 
Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes 
Through which you'd play off wondrous waterwork ; 
Only, no water left to feed their play. 
Young, — you've a hope, an aim, a love ; it's tossed 
And crossed and lost : you struggle on, some spark 
Shut in your heart against the puffs around. 
Through cold and pain ; these in due time subside. 
Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded light 
You mean to loose on the altered face of things, — 
Up with it on the tripod ! It's extinct. 
Spend your life's remnant asking — which was best, 
Light smothered up that never peeped forth once, 
Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine } 
Well, accept this too — seek the fruit of it 
Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth. 
But acknowledge, useful for a second chance, 
Another life — you've lost this world, you've gained 
Its knowledge for the next. — What knowledge, sir, 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medhwi'' 419 

Except that you know nothing ? Nay, you doubt 
Whether 'twere better have been made man or brute, 
If aught is true, if good and evil clash. 
No foul, no fair, no inside, no outside, 
There's your world ! 

Give it me ! I slap it brisk 
With harlequin's pasteboard scepter : what's it now? 
Changed like a rock-flat, rough with rusty weed, 
At first wash-over 0' the returning wave ! 



I- 




At first wash-over o' the returning \va\ e ! 

All the dry, dead, impracticable stuff 

Starts into life and light again ; this world 

Pervaded by the influx from tlie next. 

I cheat, and what's the happy consequence ? 

You find full justice straightway dealt you out, 

Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease, 

Each folly fooled. No life-long labor now 

As the price of worse than nothing ! No mere film 

Holding you chained in iron, as it seems, 

Against the outstretch of your very arms 

And legs i' the sunshine moralists forbid ! 

What would you have ? Just speak and, there, you see ! 

You're supplemented, made a whole at last : 

Bacon advises, Shakspere writes you songs, 

And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you. 

Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps, 

But so near, that the very different piques, 

Shows that e'en better than this best will be — 

This passing entertainment in a hut 

WMiose bare walls take your taste — since, one stage more, 

And you arrive at the palace : all half real, 

And you, to suit it, less than real beside. 

In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life. 

That helps the interchange of natures, flesh 



420 Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 



Transfused by souls, and such souls ! Oh, 'tis choice ! 

And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, 

Seem nigh on bursting— if you nearly see 

The real world through the false— what do you see ? 

Is the old so ruined ? You find you're in a flock 

O' the youthful, earnest, passionate— genius, beauty, 

Rank and wealth also, if you care for these, 

And all depose their natural rights, hail you 

(That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow. 

Participate in Sludgehood— nay, grow mine, 

I veritably possess them — banish doubt, 

And reticence and modesty alike ! 

Why, here's the Golden Age, old Paradise, 

Or new Eutopia ! Here is life indeed. 

And the world well won now, yours for the first time ! 

And all this might be, may be, and with good help 

Of a little lying shall be : so, Sludge lies ! 

Why, he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks 

That never were, in Troy which never was. 

Did this or the other impossible great thing! 

He's Lowell— it's a world, you smile and say. 

Of his own invention — wondrous Longfellow, 

Surprising Hawthorne ! Sludge does more than they, 

And acts the books they write : the more his praise ! 

But why do I mount to poets ? Take plain prose- 
Dealers in common sense, set these at work. 
What can they do without their helpful lies ? 
Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing 
Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit, 
Is blind to what missuits him, just records 
What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest. 
It's a History of the World, the Lizard Age, 
The Early Indians, the Old Country War, 
Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please. 
All as the author wants it. Such a scribe 
You pay and praise for putting life in stones. 
Fire into fog, making the past your world. 
There's plenty of " How do you cpntrive to grasp 
The thread which led you through this labyrinth } 
How build such solid fabric out of air } 
How on so slight foundation found this tale. 
Biography, narrative ? " or, in other words, 
** How many lies did it require to make 
The portly truth you here present us with ? " — 
" Oh ! " quoth the penman, purring at your praise, 
*' Tis fancy all ; no particle of fact : 



Mr. Sludge, ''The Medium:' 421 

I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book 

' Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes ? 

We writers paint out of our heads, you see ! " 

— ** Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you. 

The more creativ^eness and godlike craft ! " 

But I, do I present you with my piece, 

It's " What, Sludge ? When my sainted mother spoke 

The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed 

About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven 

Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house, — 

You made the raps ? 'Twas your invention that ? 

Cur, slave, and devil ! "—eight fingers and two thumbs 

Stuck in my throat ? 

Well, if the marks seem gone, 
'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time, 
Is better for a bruise than arnica. 
There, sir ! I bear no malice: 'tisn't in me. 
I know I've acted wrongly: still, I've tried 
What I could say in my excuse, — to show 
The Devil's not all devil ... I don't pretend, 
An angel, much less such a gentleman 
As you, sir ! And I've lost you, lost myself. 
Lost all, Ll-1- . . . 

No — are you in earnest, sir } 
Oh, yours, sir, is an angel's part ! I know 
What prejudice prompts, and what's the common course 
Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit : 
Only you rise superior to it all ! 
No, sir, it don't hurt much ; it's speaking long 
That makes me choke a little : the marks will go ! 
What.^ Twenty V-notes more, and outfit too, 
And not a word to Greeley .> One — one kiss 
O' the hand that saves me ! You'll not let me speak 
I well know, and I've lost the right, too true ! 
But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does) 
Your sainted . . . Well, sir,— be it so ! That's, I think, 
My bedroom candle. Good-night ! Bl-1-less you, sir ! 



R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard ! Cowardly 

scamp ! 
I only wish I dared burn down the house 
And spoil your sniggering ! Oh ! what, you're the man ? 
You're satisfied at last.^ You've found out Sludge } 
We'll see that presently : my turn, sir, next ! 
I too can tell my story : brute, — do you hear .> — 
You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag, 




M-^ 




"^^' 




The boy and the angel. 



The Boy and the AngeL 423 

In just such a fit of passion : no, it was . . . 

To get this house of hers, and many a note 

Like these . . . I'll pocket them, however . . . fiv^, 

Ten, fifteen . . . ay, you gave her throat the twist. 

Or else you poisoned her ! Confound the cuss ! 

Where was my head ? I ought to have prophesied 

He'll die in a year and join her : that's the way. 

I don't know where my head is : what had I done ? 

How did it all go ? I said he poisoned her, 

And hoped he'd have grace given him to repent, 

Whereon he picked this quarrel, bulHed me. 

And called me cheat : I tiirashed him, — who could help ? 

He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees 

To cut and run and save him from disgrace: 

I do so, and once off, he slanders me. 

An end of him. Begin elsewhere anew ! 

Boston's a hole, the herring-pond is v;ide, 

V-notes are something, liberty still more. 

Beside, is he the only fool in the world } 



THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 

Morning, evening, noon, and night, 
** Praise God ! " sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned, 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he labored, long and well : 
O'er his work the boy's curls fell. 

But ever, at each period, 

He stopped and sang, " Praise God ! " 

Then back again his curls he threw, 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, ** Well done ; 
I doubt not thou art heard, my son, 

" As well as if thy voice to-day 

Were praising God, the Pope's great way. 

*' This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 
Praises God from Peter's dome." 

Said Theocrite, " Would God that I 

Might praise him, that great w^ay, and die ! '* 

Night passed, day shone ; 
And Theocrite was gone. 



424 



The Boy a7td the Angel. 




Said Blaise, the listening monk: 

With God a day endures alway : 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night 
Now brings the voice of my dehght." 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth. 
Spread his wings and sank to earth ; 

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, 

Lived there, and played the craftsman well 

And morning, evening, noon, and night, 
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew ; 
The man put off the stripling's hue; 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay; 



TJic Boy and the Angel. 



425 



And ever o'er the trade he bent, 
And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God's will ; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, '' A praise is in mine ear ; 
There is no doubt in it, no fear : 

" So sing old worlds, and so 

New worlds that from my footstool go. 

" Clearer loves sound other ways : 
I miss my little human praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 
The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

'Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery, 

With his holy vestments dight, 
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite : 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear, 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, 
Till on his life the sickness weighed ; 

And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer : 

And rising from the sickness drear 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 




va^Sai 



fe>^^^ 



*TwAS Easter Day, 



42 6 A Death in the Desert, 



To the East with praise he turned, 
And on his sight the angel burned. 

'* I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell. 
And set thee here : I did not well. 

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere, 
Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

" Thy voice's praise seemed weak : it dropped- 
Creation's chorus stopped ! 

** Go back and praise again 
The early way, while I remain. 

*' With that weak voice of our disdain 
Take up creation's pausing strain. 

"Back to the cell and poor employ : 
Resume the craftsman and the boy ! " 

Theocrite grew old at home : 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome. 

One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 

A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 

[Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene : 
It is a parchment, of my rolls the fifth, 
Hath three skins glued together, is all Greek, 
And goeth from Epsilo7i down to Mtc: 
Lies second in the surnamed Chosen Chest, 
Stained and conserved with juice of terebinth, 
Covered with cloth of hair, and lettered Xi, 
From Xanthus, my wife's uncle, now at peace : 
Mu and Epstlori stand for my own name, 
I may not write it, but I make a cross 
To show I wait His coming, with the rest, 
And leave off here : beginneth Pamphylax.] 

I said, " If one should wet his lips with, wine. 

And slip the broadest plantain-leaf we find, 

Or else the lappet of a linen robe. 

Into the water-vessel, lay it right. 

And cool his forehead just above the eyes, 

The while a brother, kneeling either side, 

Should chafe each hand and try to make it warm, — 

He is not so far gone but he might speak." 



A Death in the Desert. 



This did not happen in the outer cave 
Nor in the secret chamber of the rock' 
Where sixty days since the decree was out 
V\ e had him bedded on a camel-skin 
And waited for his dying all the while ; 
But m the midmost grotto: since noon's hVht 
Reached there a little, and we would not lole 
ine last of what might happen on his face 



427 



M. 




Kept watch, and made pretense to graze a goat. 

I at the head, and Xanthus at the feet 

With Valens and the Boy, had lifted him, 

And brought him from the chamber in the depths, 

And laid him in the light ^vhere we might see • 

^or certain smiles began about his mouth 

And his hds moved, presageful of the end! 

Beyond, and half way up the mouth o' the cave, 
1 he Bactrian convert, having his desire 
Kept watch, and made pretense to graze a goat 
1 hat gave us milk, on rags of various herb 



428 A Death in the Desert, 

Plantain and quitch, the rocks' shade keeps alive 
So that if any thief or soldier passed 
(Because the persecution was aware), 
Yielding the goat up promptly with his life, 
Such man might pass on, joyful at a prize, 
Nor care to pry into the cool o' the cave. 
Outside was all noon and the burning blue. 




\ 



Then Xanthus said a prayer. 

" Here is wine," answered Xanthus, — dropped a drop; 

I stooped and placed the lap of cloth aright, 

Then chafed his right hand, and the Boy his left : 

But Valens had bethought him, and produced 

And broke a ball of nard, and made perfume. 

Only, he did — not so much wake, as — turn 

And smile a little, as a sleeper does 

If any dear one call him, touch his face — 

And smiles and loves, but will not be disturbed. 

Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept: 

It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome, 

Was burned, and could not write the chronicle. 

Then the Boy sprang up from his knees, and ran, 
Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought, 
And fetched the seventh plate of graven lead 
Out of the secret chamber, found a place. 
Pressing with finger on the deeper dints. 
And spoke, as 'twere his mouth proclaiming first 
" I am the Resurrection and the Life," 



A Death in the Desert. 429 

Whereat he opened his eyes wide at once, 
And sat up of himself, and looked at us ; 
And thenceforth nobody pronounced a word : 
Only, outside, the Bactrian cried his cry 
Like the lone desert-bird that wears the ruff. 
As signal we were safe, from time to time. 

First he said, " If a friend declared to me, 

This my son Valens, this my other son, 

Were James and Peter, — nay, declared as well 

This lad was very John, — I could believe ! 

— Could, for a moment, doubtlessly believe : 

So is myself withdrawn into my depths, 

The soul retreated from the perished brain 

Whence it was wont to feel and use the world 

Through these dull members, done with long ago. 

Yet I myself remain ; I feel myself : 

And there is nothing lost. Let be, a while ! " 

[This is the doctrine he was wont to teach. 

How divers persons witness in each man, 

Three souls which make up one soul : first, to wit, 

A soul of each and all the bodily parts, 

Seated therein, which works, and is what Does, 

And has the use of earth, and ends the man 

Downward : but, tending upward for advice, 

Grows into, and again is grown into 

By the next soul, which, seated in the brain, 

Useth the first with its collected use, 

And feeleth, thinketh, wilieth, — is what Knows : 

Which, duly tending upward in its turn, 

Grows into, and again is grown into 

By the last soul, that uses both the first. 

Subsisting whether they assist or no, 

And, constituting man's self, is what Is — 

And leans upon the former, makes it play. 

As that played off the first : and, tending up. 

Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man 

Upward in that dread point of intercourse. 

Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him. 

What Does, what Knows, what Is ; three souls, one man. 

I give the glossa of Theotypas.] 

And then, "A stick, once fire from end to end ; 
Now, ashes save the tip that holds a spark ! 
Yet, blow the spark, it runs back, spreads itself 
A little where the fire was : thus I urge 
The soul that served me, till it task once rnore 



43^ A Death in the Desert, 

What ashes of my bram have kept their shape, 
And these make effort on the last o' the flesh, 
Trying to taste again the truth of things " — 
(He smiled) — " their very superficial truth ; 
As that ye are my sons, that it is long- 
Since James and Peter had release by death. 
And I am only he, your brother John, 
Who saw and heard, and could remember all. 
Remember all ! It is not much to say. 
WHiat if the truth broke on me from above 
As once and ofttimes ? Such might hap again : 
Doubtlessly He might stand in presence here, 
With head wool-white, eyes, flame, and feet like brass, 
The sword and the seven stars, as I have seen — 
I who now shudder only and surmise 
' How did your brother bear that sight and live ? * 

** If I live yet, it is for good, more love 
Through me to men : be naught but ashes here 
That keep a while my semblance, who was John, — 
Still, when they scatter, there is left on earth 
No one alive who knew (consider this !) 
— Saw^ with his eyes and handled with his hands 
That which was from the first, the Word of Life. 
How will it be when none more saith ' I saw ' ? 

" Such ever was love's way : to rise, it stoops. 
Since I, whom Christ's mouth taught, was bidden teach, 
I went, for many years, about the world, 
Saying, ' It was so ; so I heard and saw,' 
Speaking as the case asked : and men believed. 
Afterward came the message to myself 
In Patmos isle ; I was not bidden teach, 
But simply listen, take a book and write, 
Nor set down other than the given word, 
With nothing left to my arbitrament 
To choose or change : I wrote, and men believed. 
Then, for my time grew brief, no message more. 
No call to write again, I found a way. 
And, reasoning from my knowledge, merely taught 
Men should, for love's sake, in love's strength, believe ; 
Or I would pen a letter to a friend 
And urge the same as friend, nor less nor more : 
Friends said I reasoned rightly, and believed. 
^ But at the last, why, I seemed left alive 
Like a sea-jelly weak on Patmos strand. 
To tell dry sea-beach gazers how I fared 
When there was mid-sea, and the mighty things ; 



A Death in the Desert. 43 £ 







Take a book and write. 



Left to repeat, ' I saw, I heard, I knew,' 

And go all over the old ground again, 

With Antichrist already in the world, 

And many Antichrists, who answered prompt 

' Am I not Jaspar as thyself art John ? 

Nay, young, whereas through age thou mayest forget 

Wherefore, explain, or how shall we believe ? ' 

I never thought to call down fire on such, 

Or, as in wonderful and early days, 

Pick up the scorpion, tread the serpent dumb; 

But patient stated much of the Lord's life 

Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work : 

Since much that at the first, in deed and word. 

Lay simply and sufficiently exposed, 

Had grown (or else my soul was grown to match, 

Fed through such years, familiar with such light,' 

Guarded and guided still to see and speak) 

Of new significance and fresh result ; 

What first were guessed as points, I now knew stars 

And named them in the Gospel I have writ. 

For men said, * It is getting long ago : ' 

' Where is the promise of His coming ? '—asked 

These young ones in their strength, as loth to wait, 

Of me who, when their sires were born, was old, 

I, for I loved them, answered, joyfully, 



432 A Death in the Desert, 

Since I was there, and helpful in my age ; 
And, in the main, I think such men believed. 
Finally, thus endeavoring, I fell sick, 
Ye brought me here, and I supposed the end, 
And went to sleep with one thought that, at least, 
Though the whole earth should lie in wickedness, 
We had the truth, might leave the rest to God. 
Yet now I wake in such decrepitude 
As I had slidden down and fallen afar, 
Past even the presence of my former self, 
Grasping the while for stay at facts which snap, 
Till I am found away from my own world. 
Feeling for foothold through a blank profound, 
Along with unborn people in strange lands, 
Who say — I hear said or conceive they say — 
* Was John at all, and did he say he saw ? 
Assure us, ere we ask what he might see ! ' 

** And how shall I assure them ? Can they share 

— They, who have f^esh, a veil of youth and strength 

About each spirit, that needs must bide its time, 

Living and learning still as years assist 

Which wear the thickness thin, and let man see — 

With me who hardly am withheld at all, 

But shudderingly, scarce a shred between, 

Lie bare to the universal prick of light ? 

Is it for nothing we grow old and weak. 

We whom God loves .^ When pain ends, gain ends too. 

To me, that story — ay, that Life and Deatlv 

Of which I wrote ' it was ' — to me, it is ; 

— Is, here and now : I apprehend naught else. 

Is not God now i' the world his power first made ? 

Is not his love at issue still with sin, 

Visibly when a wrong is done on earth } 

Love, wrong, and pain, what see I else around ? 

Yea, and the Resurrection and Uprise 

To the right hand of the throne — what is it beside, 

WHien such truth, breaking bounds, o'erfioods my soul, 

And, I saw the sin and death, even so 

See I the need yet transiency of both. 

The good and glory consummated thence ? 

I saw the Power; I see the Love, once weak, 

Resum.e the Power : and in this word ' I see,' 

Lo, there is recognized the Spirit of both 

That moving o'er the spirit of man, unblinds 

His eye and bids him look. These are, I see ; 

But ye, the children, his beloved ones too, 



A Death in the Desert. 433 

Ye need, — as I should use an optic glass 

I wondered at erewhile, somewhere i' the world, 

It had been given a crafty smith to make ; 

A tube, he turned on objects brought too close, 

Lying confusedly insubordinate 

For the unassisted eye to master once : 

Look through his tube, at distance now they lay, 

Become succinct, distinct, so small, so clear ! 

Just thus, ye needs must apprehend what truth 

I see, reduced to plain historic fact. 

Diminished into clearness, proved a point 

And far away : ye would withdraw your sense 

From out eternity, strain it upon time, 

Then stand before that fact, that Life and Death, 

Stay there at gaze, till it dispart, dispread. 

As though a star should open out, all sides. 

Grow the world on you, as it is my world. 

** For life, with all it yields of joy and woe, 

And hope and fear, — believe the aged friend, — 

Is just our chance o' the prize of learning love, 

How love might be, hath been indeed, and is ; 

And that we hold thenceforth to the uttermost 

Such prize despite the envy of the world, 

And, having gained truth, keep truth : that is all. 

But see the double way wherein we are led, 

How the soul learns diversely from the flesh ! 

With flesh, that hath so little time to stay, 

And yields mere basement for the soul's emprize, 

Expect prompt teaching. Helpful was the light, 

And warmth was cherishing and food was choice 

To every man's flesh, thousand years ago 

As now to yours and mine ; the body sprang 

At once to the height, and staid : but the soul, — no ! 

Since sages who, this noontide, meditate 

In Rome or Athens, may descry some point 

Of the eternal power, hid yestereve : 

And, as thereby the power's whole mass extends, 

So much extends the ether floating o'er 

The love that tops the might, the Christ in God. 

Then, as new lessons shall be learned in these 

Till earth's work stop and useless time run out, 

So duly, daily, needs provision be 

For keeping the soul's prowess possible, 

Building new barriers as the olcl decay, 

Saving us from evasion of life's proof, 

Putting the question ever, ' Does God love, 



434 ^ Death in the Desert. 

And will ye hold that truth against the world ? ' 

Ye know there needs no second proof with good 

Gained for our tiesh from any earthly source : 

We might go freezing, ages, — give us fire, 

Thereafter we judge fire at its full worth, 

And guard it safe through every chance, ye know ! 

That fable of Prometheus and his theft, 

How mortals gained Jove's fiery flower, grows old 

(1 have been used to hear the pagans own) 

And out of mind ; but fire, howe'er its birth, 

Here is it, precious to the sophist now 

Who laughs the myth of y4ischylus to scorn, 

As precious to those satyrs of his play. 

Who touched it in gay wonder at tb.e thing. 

While were it so with the soul, — this gift of truth 

Once grasped, weie this our soul's gain safe, and sure 

To prosper as the body's gain is wont, — 

Why, man's probation would conclude, his earth 

Crumble ; for he both reasons and decides, 

Weighs first, then chooses : will he give up fire 

For gold or purple once he knows its worth ? 

Could he give Christ up w^ere His worth as plain ? 

Therefore, I say, to test man, the proofs shift, 

Nor may he grasp that fact like other fact. 

And straightway in his life acknowledge it, 

As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire. 

Sigh ye, * It had been easier once than now? ' 

To give you answer I am left alive ; 

Look at me who was present from the first ! 

Ye know what things I saw ; then came a test. 

My first, befitting me who so had seen : 

' Forsake the Christ thou sawest transfigured. Him 

W^ho trod the sea and brought the dead to life.^ 

What should wring this from thee? ' — ye laugh and ask, 

Wiiat wrung it ? Even a torchlight and a noise, 

The sudden Roman faces, violent hands, 

And fear of what the Jews might do ! Just that. 

And it is written, ' I forsook and fled ' : 

There was my trial, and it ended thus. 

Ay, but my soul had gained its truth, could grow: 

Another year or two, — what little child. 

What tender woman that had seen no least 

Of aU my sights, but barely heard them told. 

Who did not clasp the cross with a light laugh. 

Or wrap the burning robe round, thanking God? 

Well, was truth safe forever, then ? Not so. 

Already had begun the silent v^'ork 



A Death in the Desert, 435 



Whereby truth, deadened of its absolute blaze, 

Might need love's eye to pierce the o'erstretched doubt. 

Teachers were busy, whispering 'All is true 

As the aged ones report ; but youth can reach 

Where age gropes dimly, weak with stir and strain, 

And the full doctrine slumbers till to-day.' 

Thus, what the Roman's lowered spear was found, 

A bar to me who touched and handled truth. 

Now proved the glozing of some new shrewd tongue. 

This Ebion, this Cerinthus or their mates, 

Till imminent was the outcry * Save our Christ ! ' 

Whereon I stated much of the Lord's life 

Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it w^ork. 

Such work done, as it will be, what comes next? 

What do I hear say, or conceive men say, 

* Was John at all, and did he say he saw ? 

Assure us, ere we ask what he might see ! ' 

" Is this indeed a burthen for late days, 

And may I help to bear it with you all, 

Using my weakness which becomes your strength ? 

For if a babe were born inside this grot, 

Grew to a boy here, heard us praise the sun. 

Yet had but yon sole glimmer in light's place,— 

One loving him and wishful he should learn, 

Would much rejoice himself was blinded first 

Month by month here, so made to understand 

How eyes, born darkling, apprehend amiss : 

I think I could explain to such a child 

There was more glow outside than gleams he caught, 

Ay, nor need urge * I saw it, so believe ! ' 

It is a heavy burthen you shall bear 

In latter days, new lands, or old grown strange. 

Left without me, which must be very soon. 

What is the doubt, my brothers } Quick with it ! 

I see you stand conversing, each new face. 

Either in fields, of yellow^summer eves. 

On islets yet unnamed amid the sea; 

Or pace for shelter 'neath a portico 

Out of the crowd in some enormous town 

Where now the larks sing in a solitude ; 

Or muse upon blank heaps of stone and sand 

Idly conjectured to be Ephesus : 

And no one asks his fellow any more 

* Where is the promise of his coming } ' but 

* Was He revealed in any of His lives, 
As Power, as Love, as Influencing Soul }' 



43^ ^ Death in the Desert. 




In FIKLDS, OF YELLOW SUMIMER EVES. 

** Quick, for time presses, tell the whole mind out, 
And let us ask and answer and be saved ! 
My book speaks on, because it cannot pass ; 
One listens quietly, nor scoffs but pleads 
* Here is a tale of things done ages since f 
What truth was ever told the second day ? 
Wonders, that would prove doctrine, go for naught. 
Remains the doctrine, love ; well, we must love, 
And what we love most, power and love in one. 
Let us acknowledge on the record here. 
Accepting these in Christ : must Christ then be ? 
Has He been ? Did we not ourselves make Him ? 
Our mind receives but what it holds, no more. ; 

First of the love, then ; we acknowledge Christ — 
A proof we comprehend His love, a proof 
We had such love already in ourselves, 
Knew first what else we should not recognize. 
'Tis mere projection from man's inmost mind, 
And, what he loves, thus falls reflected back. 
Becomes accounted somewhat out of him ; 
He throws it up in air, it drops down earth's. 
With shape, name, story added, man's old way. 
How prove you Christ came otherwise at least } 
Next try the power : He made and rules the world : 
Certes there is a w^orld once made, now ruled, 
Unless things have been ever as we see. 
Our sires declared a charioteer's yoked steeds 
Brought the sun up the east and down the west, 
Which only of itself now rises, sets. 
As if a hand impelled it and a will, — 
Thus they long thought, they who had will and hands 
But the new question's whisper is distinct. 
Wherefore must all force needs be like ourselves } 



A Death in the Desert. 



431 




A charioteer's yoked steeds. 



We have the hands, the will; 
what made and drives 

The sun is force, is law, is named, 
not known, 

While will and love we do know ; 
marks of these, 

Eye-witnesses attest, so books 
declare — 

As that, to punish or reward our 
race, 

The sun at undue times arose 
or set 

Or else stood still : what do not 
men affirm ? 

But earth requires as urgently 
reward 

Or punishment to-day as years 
ago, 
And none expects the sun will interpose ; 
Therefore it was mere passion and mistake, 
Or erring zeal for right, which changed the truth. 
Go back, far, farther, to the birth of things ; 
Ever the will, the intelligence, the love, 
Man's!— which he gives, supposing he but finds, 
As late he gave head, body, hands, and feet. 
To help these in w^hat forms he called his gods, 
First, Jove's brow, Juno's eyes were swept away, 
But Jove's wrath, Juno's pride continued long ; 
As last, will, power, and love discarded these, 
So law in turn discards power, love, and will. 
What proveth God is otherwise at least ? 
All else, projection from the mind of man ! ' 
Nay, do not give me wine, for I am strong. 
But place my gospel where I put my hands. 

" I say that man was made to grow, not stop ; 
That help he needed once, and needs no more, 
Having grown but an inch by, is withdrawn : 
For he hath new needs, and new helps to these. 
This imports solely, man should mount on each 
New height in view ; the help whereby he mounts, 
The ladder-rung his foot has left, may fall. 
Since all things suffer change save God the Truth. 
Man apprehends Him newly at each stage 
Whereat earth's ladder drops, its service done ; 
And nothing shall prove twice what once was proved. 
You stick a garden-plot with ordered twigs 



43^ A Death in the Desert. 



To show inside lie germs of herbs unborn, 

And check the careless step would spoil their birth ; 

But when herbs wave, the guardian twigs may go, 

Since should ye doubt of virtues, question kinds. 

It is no longer for old twigs ye look, 

Which proved once underneath lay store of seed. 

But to the herb's self, by what light ye boast, 

For what fruit's signs are. This book's fruit is plain, 

Nor miracles need prove it any more. 

Doth the fruit show? Then miracles bade 'ware 

At first of root and stem, saved both till now 

From trampling ox, rough boar, and wanton goat. 

What } Was man made a wheelwork to wind up, 

And be discharged, and straight wound up anew } 

No .'—grown, his growth lasts ; taught, he ne'er forgets : 

May learn a thousand things, not twice the same. 

This might be pagan teaching: now hear mine. 

'' I say, that as the babe, you feed a while, 

Becomes a boy and fit to feed himself. 

So, minds at first must be spoon-fed with truth : 

When they can eat, babe's nurture is withdrawn. 

I fed the babe whether it would or no : 

I bid the boy or feed himself or starve, 

I cried once, ' That ye may believe in Christ, 

Behold this blind man shall receive his sight! ' 

I cry now, ' Urgest thou, for I am shrewd, 

And smile at stories how Joh7is word could cure — 

Repeat that miracle a7id take viy faith ? ' 

I say, that miracle was duly wrought 

When, save for it, no faith was possible. 

Whether a change were wrought i' the shows o' the 

world. 
Whether the change came from our minds which see 
Of shows o' the world so much as and no more 
Than God wills for His purpose,— (what do I 
See now, suppose you, there where you see rock 
Round us.^) — I know not; such was the effect. 
So faith grew, making void more miracles 
Because too much : they would compel, not help. 
I say, the acknowledgment of God in Christ 
Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee 
All questions in the earth and out of it. 
And has so far advanced thee to be wise. 
Wouldst thou unprove this to reprove the proved } 
In life's mere minute, with power to use that proof, 
Leave knowledge and revert to how it sprung } 



A Death in the Desert. 439 

Thou hast it ; use it and forthwith, or die ! 

For I say, this is death and the sole death, 

When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, 

Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance. 

And lack of love from love made manifest : 

A lamp's death when, replete with oil, it chokes ; 

A stomach's when, surcharged with food, it starves. 

With ignorance was surety of a cure. 

When man, appalled at nature, questioned first 

' What if there lurk a might behind this might ? * 

He needed satisfaction God could give, 

And did give, as ye have the written word : 

But when he finds might still redouble might, 

Yet asks, ' Since all is might, what use of will } * 

— Will, the one source of might, — he being man 

With a man's will and a man's might, to teach 

In little how the two combine in large, — 

That man has turned round on himself and stands : 

W^hich in the course of nature is, to die. 

*' And when man questioned, ' What if there be love 
Behind the will and might, as real as they ? ' — 
He needed satisfaction God could give, 
And did give, as ye have the written word : 
But when, beholding that love everywhere, 
He reasons, ' Since such love is everywhere, 
And since ourselves can love and would be loved. 
We ourselves make the love, and Christ was not,' — 
How shall ye help this man who knows himself, 
That he must love and would be loved again, 
Yet, owning his own love that proveth Christ, 
Rejecteth Christ through v^ery need of Him ? 
The lamp o'erswims with oil, the stomach flags 
Loaded with nurture, and that man's soul dies. 

*' If he rejoin, ' But this was all the while 

A trick ; the fault was, first of all, in thee, 

Thy story of the places, names and dates, 

Where, when, and how the ultimate truth had rise, 

— Thy prior truth, at last discovered none, 

WHience now the seconTl suffers detriment. 

What good of giving knowledge if, because 

O' the manner of the gift, its profit fail ? 

And why refuse what modicum of help 

Had stopped the after-doubt, impossible 

r the face of truth — truth absolute, uniform.^ 

Why must I hit of this and miss of that. 



44^ A Death in the Desert. 

Distinguish just as I be weak or strong. 

And not ask of thee and have answer prompt, 

Was this once, was it not once ? — then and now 

And evermore, plain truth from man to man. 

Is John's procedure just the heathen bard's ? 

Put question of his famous play again 

How for the ephemerals' sake, Jove's fire was filched, 

And carried in a cane and brought to earth : 

The fact is i7i the fable, cry the wise, 

Mortals obtained the boo?i, so much is fact , 

Though fire be spirit and produced on earth. 

As with the Titan's, so now with thy tale : 

Why breed in us perplexity, mistake, 

Nor tell the whole truth in the proper words ? ' 

*' I answer, Have ye yet to argue out 

The very primal thesis, plainest law, 

— Man is not God but hath God's end to serve, 

A master to obey, a course to take, 

Somewhat to cast off, somewhat to become ? 

Grant this, then man must pass from old to new, 

From vain to real, from mistake to fact, 

From what once seemed good, to what now proves 

best : 
How could man have progression otherwise ? 
Before the point was mooted 'What is God ? ' 
No savage man inquired ' What is myself ? ' 
Much less replied, ' First, last, and best of things.' 
Man takes that title now if he believes 
Might can exist with neither will nor love, 
In God's case — what he names now Nature's Law — 
While in himself he recognizes love 
No less than might and will: and rightly takes. 
Since if man prove the sole existent thing 
Where these combine, whatever their degree, 
However weak the might or will or love, 
So they be found there, put in evidence, — 
He is as surely higher in the scale 
Than any might with neither love nor will, 
As life, apparent in the poorest midge 
(When the faint dust-speck flits, ye guess its wing), 
Is marvelous beyond dead Atlas' self — 
Given to the nobler midge for restingplace ! 
Thus, man proves best and highest — God, in fine, 
And thus the victory leads but to defeat. 
The gain to loss, best rise to the worst fall, 
His life becomes impossible, which is death, 



A Death in the Desert. 441 

** But if, appealing thence, he cower, avouch 

He is mere man, and in humihty 

Neither may know God nor mistalce himself ; 

I point to the immediate consequence 

And say, by such confession straight he falls 

Into man's place, a thing nor God nor beast, 

Made to know that he can know and not more ; 

Lower than God who knows all and can all. 

Higher than beasts which know and can so far 

As each beast's limit, perfect to an end, 

Nor conscious that they know, nor craving more ; 

While man knows partly but conceives beside, 

Creeps ever on from fancies to the fact, 

And in this striving, this converting air 

Into a solid he may grasp and use. 

Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, 

Not God's, and not the beasts' : God is, they are, 

Man partly is and wholly hopes to be. 

Such progress could no more attend his soul 

Were all it struggles after found at first 

And guesses changed to knowledge absolute, 

Than motion wait his body, were all else 

Than it the solid earth on every side, 

W' here now through space he moves from rest to rest. 

Man, therefore, thus conditioned, must expect 

He could not, what he know^s now, know at first ; 

What he considers that he knows to-day, 

Come but to-morrow, he will find misknown ; 

Getting increase of knowledge, since he learns 

Because he lives, which is to be a man, 

Set to instruct himself by his past self : 

First, like the brute, obliged by facts to learn. 

Next, as man may, obliged by his own mind, 

Bent, habit, nature, knowledge turned to law. 

God's gift was that man should conceive of truth, 

And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake, 

As midway help till he reach fact indeed. 

The statuary ere he mold a shape 

Boasts a like gift, the shape's idea, and next 

The aspiration to produce the same. 

So, taking clay, he calls his shape thereout, 

Cries ever * Now I have the thing I see ' : 

Yet all the while goes changing what was wrought. 

From falsehood like the truth, to truth itself. 

How were it had he cried * I see no face, 

No breast, no feet i' the ineffectual clay ' } 

Rather commend him that he clapped his hands. 




\ = 



i\ 



So, TAKING CLAY, HE CALLS HIS SHAPE THEREOUT. 



A Death in the Desert. 443 



And laughed ' It is my shape and lives again !' 
Enjoyed the falsehood, touched it on to truth 
Until yourselves applaud the flesh indeed 
In what is still flesh-imitating clay. 
Right in you, right in him, such way be man's ! 
God only makes the live shape at a jet. 
Will ye renounce this pact of creatureship ? 
The pattern on the Mount subsists no more, 
Seemed a while, then returned to nothingness ; 
But copies, Moses strove to make thereby, 
Serve still and are replaced as time requires: 
By these, make newest vessels, reach the type' 
If ye demur, this judgment on your head. 
Never to reach the ultimate, angels' law/ 
Indulging every instinct of the soul 
There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing! 

"Such is the burthen of the latest time. 
I have survived to hear it with my ears, 
Answer it with my lips : does this suffice.^ 
For if there be a further woe than such. 
Wherein my brothers struggling need a hand, 
bo long as any pulse is left in mine, 
May I be absent even longer yet, 
Plucking the blind ones back from the abyss, 
Though I should tarry a new hundred years V' 

But he was dead : 'twas about noon, the day 
Somewhat declining : we five buried him 
That eve, and then, dividing, went five ways, 
And I, disguised, returned to Ephesus. 

By this, the cave's mouth must be filled with sand. 

Valens is lost, I know^ not of his trace ; 

The Bactrian was but a wild childish man 

And could not write nor speak, but only loved: 

So, lest the memory of this go quite, 

Seeing that I to-morrow fight the beasts, 

I tell the same to Phoebas, whom believe ! 

For many look again to find that face. 

Beloved John's to whom I ministered,' 

Somewhere in life about the world ; they err: 

Either mistaking what was darkly spoke 

At ending of his book, as he relates, 

Or misconceiving somewhat of this speech 

Scattered from mouth to mouth, as I suppose. 

Believe ye will not see him any more 

About the world with his divine regard ! 



444 Fears and Scruples. 

For all was as I say, and now the man 

Lies as he lay once, breast to breast with God. 



[Cerinthus read and mused ; one added this : — 

" If Christ, as thou affirmest, be of men 

Mere man, the first and best but nothing more, — 

Account Him, for reward of what He was, 

Now and forever, wretchedest of all. 

For see ; Himself conceived of life as love, 

Conceived of love as what must enter in. 

Fill up, make one with His each soul He loved : 

Thus much for man's joy, all men's joy for Him. 

Well, He is gone, thou say est, to fit reward. 

But by this time are many souls set free. 

And very many still retained alive : 

Nay, should His coming be delayed a while, 

Say, ten years longer (twelve years, some compute) 

See if, for every finger of thy hands, 

There be not found, that day the world shall end, 

Hundreds of souls, each holding by Christ's word 

That He will grow incorporate with all. 

With me as Pamphylax, with him as John, 

Groom for each bride ! Can a mere man do this ? 

Yet Christ saith, this He lived and died to do. 

Call Christ, then, the illimitable God, 

Or lost ! " 

But 'twas Cerinthus that is lost.] 

FEARS AND SCRUPLES. 

I. 

Here's my case. Of old I used to love him, 
This same unseen friend, before I knew : 

Dream there was none like him, none above him, — 
Wake to hope and trust my dream was true. 

II. 

Loved I not his letters full of beauty? 

Not his actions famous far and wide .^ 
Absent, he would know I vowed him duty ; 

Present, he would find me at his side. 

III. 
Pleasant fancy ! for I had but letters, 
Only knew of actions by hearsay : 




Fears and Scruples. 445 

He himself was busied with my 
betters ; 
What of that ? My turn must 
come some day. 

IV. 

" Some day " proving — no day ! 
Here's the puzzle. 
Passed and passed my turn is. 
Why complain } 
He's so busied. If I could but 
muzzle 
People's foolish mouths that 
give me pain ! 

V. 

*' Letters ? " (hear them I) " You 
a judge of writing ? 
Ask the experts ! How they 
shake the head 
O'er these characters, your friend's 

inditing — Loved I not his letters. 

Call them forgery from A to Z ! 

VI. 

" Actions } Where's your certain proof " (they bother) 
'* He, of all you find so great and good, 

He, he only, claims this, that, the other 
Action — claimed by men, a multitude? " 

VII. 

I can simply wish I might refute you. 

Wish my friend would — by a word, a wink, — 

Bid me stop that foolish mouth, — you brute you ! 
He keeps absent, — why, I cannot think. 

VIII. 

Never mind ! Though foolishness may flout me, 
One thing's sure enough : 'tis neither frost, 

No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me 

Thanks for truth — though falsehood, gained — though 
lost. 

IX. 

All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier, 

For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill 

Through and through me as I thought " The gladlier 
Lives my friend because I love him still ! " 






V 



L 




Queen of Pride. 



Artemis Prologizes. 447 

. ( 

X. 

Ah, but there's a menace someone utters ! 

** What and if your friend at home play tricks ? 
Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters ? \ 

Mean your eyes should pierce through solid bricks? 

XI. ; 

" What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy i 

Lay on you the blame that bricks — conceal ? \ 

Say 'At least I saw who did 710 1 see me, j 

Does see now, a7id presently shall feel ' ? \ 

XII. 

** Why, that makes your friend a monster ! " say you : 

** Had his house no window ? At first nod, ■ 

Would you not have hailed him ? " Hush, I pray you ! | 

What if this friend happen to be — God ? j 

'\ 

ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. ! 

I AM a goddess of the ambrosial courts, 
And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed 
By none whose temples whiten this the world. 
Through heaven I roll my lucid moon along; 

I shed in hell o'er my pale people peace ; i 

On earth I, caring for the creatures, guard • 

Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek, 
And every feathered mother's callow brood, 

And all that love green haunts and loneliness. | 

Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns 

Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, | 

Upon my image at Athenai here ; 
And this dead Youth, Asclepios bends above. 

Was dearest to me. He, my buskined step « 

To follow through the wild-wood leafy ways, \ 

And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts ! 

Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low, 

Neglected homage to another god : ' 

Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke j 

Of tapers lulled, in jealousy dispatched ! 

A noisome lust that, as the gadbee stings, \ 

Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for himself ! 

The son of Theseus her great absent spouse. i 

Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage \ 

Against the fury of the Queen, she judged ! 

Life insupportable ; and, pricked at heart j 

An Amazonian stranger's race should dare | 



448 



Artemis Prologizes. 



'-^^y,. 




Lay the leupakd low. 

To scorn her, perished by the murderous cord : 
Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll 
The fame of him her swerving made not swerve. 
And Theseus, read, returning, and believed, 
And exiled, in the blindness of his wrath, 
The man without a crime who, last as first, 
Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth. 
Now Theseus from Poseidon had obtained 
That of his wishes should be granted three, 
And one he imprecated straight — ** Alive 
May ne'er Hippolutos reach other lands ! " 
Poseidon heard, ai ai! And scarce the prince 
Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car 
That give the feet a stay against the strength 
Of the Henetian horses, and around 
His body flung the rein, and urged their speed 
Along the rocks and shingles of the shore, 
When from the gaping wave a monster flung 
His obscene body in the coursers' path. 
These, mad with terror, as the sea-bull sprawled 
Wallowing about their feet, lost care of him 
That reared them ; and the master-chariot-pole 
Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, 
Hippolutos, whose feet were trammeled fast. 
Was yet dragged forward by the circling rein 



A 7^ t ends Prologizes. 449 

Which either hand directed ; nor they quenched 

The frenzy of their flight before each trace, 

Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woeful car, 

Each bowlder-stone, sharp stub, and spiny shell, 

Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands 

On that detested beach, was bright with blood 

And morsels of his flesh ; then fell the steeds 

Head-foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts. 

Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed. 

His people, who had witnessed all afar, 

Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. 

But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced 

(Indomitable as a man foredoomed) 

That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, 

I, in a flood of glory visible, 

Stood o'er my dying votary, and, deed 

By deed, revealed, as all took place, the truth. 

Then Theseus lay the woefulest of men, 

And worthily ; but ere the death-veils hid 

His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed 

To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai wails. 

So I, who ne'er forsake my votaries. 
Lest to the cross-way none the honey-cake 
Should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life ; 
Lest at my fane the priests disconsolate 
Should dress my image with some faded poor 
Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object 
Such slackness to my worshipers who turn 
Elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, 
As they had climbed Olumpos to report 
Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne — 
I interposed : and, this eventful night — 
(While round the funeral pyre the populace 
Stood with fierce light on their black robes which bound 
Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped 
O'er the dead body of their withered prince. 
And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated 
On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab 
'Twas bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief — 
As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed 
Sending a crowd of sparkles through the night, 
And the gay fire,. elate with mastery, 
Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars 
Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense. 
And splendid gums like gold), — my potency 
Conveyed the perished man to my retreat 



4SO 



Pheidippides, 



^^^.P^^^. 
fe^ 




Theseus prostrated. 

In the thrice-venerable forest here. 
And this white-bearded sage who squeezes now 
The berried plant, is Phoibos' son of fame, 
Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught 
The doctrine of each herb and flower and root, 
To know their secret'st virtue and express 
The saving soul of all : who so has soothed 
With lavers the torn brow and murdered cheeks, 
Composed the hair and brought its gloss again. 
And called the red bloom to the pale skin back, 
And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh 
Even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot 
Of every tortured limb — that now^ he lies 
As if mere sleep possessed him underneath 
These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh cheer, 
Divine presenter of the healing rod, 
Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye, 
Twines his lithe spires around ! I say, much cheer! 
Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies ! 
And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, 
Ply, as the sage directs, these buds and leaves 
That strew the turf around the twain ! While I 
Await, in fitting silence, the event. 



PHEIDIPPIDES. 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! 
Gods of my birthplace, demons and heroes, honor to all ! 
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise 
■ — Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the asgis and spear ! 
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, 




White crowd of woodland sister-nym 



PHS. 



45 ^ Pheidippides. 



Now, henceforth, and^forever, — O latest to whom I upraise 
Hand and heart and voice ! For Athens, leave pasture and 

tlock ! 
Present to help, potent to save, Pan — patron I call ! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return ! 
See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks ! 
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and 

you, 
" Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid ! 
Persia has come, we are here, where is She? " Your command 

I obeyed. 
Ran and raced : like stubble, some field which a fire runs 

through, 
Was the space between city and city : tw^o days, two nights did 

I burn 
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 

Into their midst I broke : breath served but for '' Persia has 

come ! 
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth ; 
Razed to the ground is Eretria— but Athens, shall Athens sink, 
Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, 
Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the 

stander-by ? 
Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er 

destruction's brink ? 
How, — when ? No care for my limbs ! — there's lightning in all 

and some — 
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth ! " 

O my Athens — Sparta love thee ? Did Sparta respond ? 
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, 
Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate ! 
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood 
Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from 

dry wood : 
" Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate.^ 
Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond 
Swing of thy spear } Phoibos and Artemis, clang them ' Ye 

must' ! " 

No bolt launched from Olumpos ! Lo, their answer at last ! 
*' Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta 

befriend ? 
Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake ! 
Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the 

Gods! 



Pheidippides, 453 



Ponder that precept of old, ' No warfare, whatever the odds 
In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take 
Full-circle her state in the sky ! ' Already she rounds to it fast : 
Athens must wait, patient as w^e — who judgment suspend." 

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had moldered 

to ash ! 
That sent a blaze through my blood ; off, off and away w^is I 

back, 
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the 

vile ! 
Yet " O Gods of my land ! " I cried, as each hillock and plain, 
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, 
** Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you 

erew^hile ? 
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation ! Too rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack ! 

" Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to inwreathe 
Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave ! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract ! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain ! What matter if slacked 
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave 
No deity deigns to drape with verdure — at least I can breathe, 
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute ! " 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge ; 
Gully and gap, I clambered and cleared till, sudden, bar 
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: 
''Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? 
Gut of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise ! No bridge 
Better ! " — when — ha ! what was it I came on, of wonders that 
are ? 

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan ! 
Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof : 
All the great God w^as good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl 
Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, 
As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 
''Halt, Pheidippides " — halt I did, my brain of a whirl : 
"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious 

began : 
"How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof ? 

" Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast ! 
Wherefore ? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of 
old? 








)) "^ 



-1 



y 




There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he— majestical Pan ! 



Pheidippides. 



455 



Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Put Pan to the test ' 
Go bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 
In the temples and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, ' The Goat-God 
saith : 

When Persia— so much as strews not the soil— is cast in the sea 
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and 

least. 
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and 

the bold ! ' 

*'Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the 

pledge ! 
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 
—Fennel, whatever it bode— I grasped it a-tremble with dew.) 
\\hile,asforthee . . . " But enough ! He was gone. If I 

ran hitherto — ^ 

Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew 
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's 

^^g^ ! 
Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! myself have a guerdon rare ' 



Then spoke Miltiades. - And thee, best runner of Greece 
Whose hmbs did duty indeed,-what gift is promised thyself P 
Tell It us stmightway,- Athens the mother demands of her son i " 
Rosily blushed the youth : he paused : but, lifting at length 
His eyes from the ground, it seemed 
as he gathered the rest of 
his strength 
Into the utterance— ''Pan spoke 
thus : ' For what thou hast 
done 
Count on a worthy reward ! Hence- 
forth be allowed thee release 
From the racer's toil, no vulgar 
reward in praise or in pelf!' 

*' I am bold to believe. Pan means 

reward the most to my mind! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, 

wherever this fennel may 

grow,— 
Pound— Pan helping us— Persia to 

dust, and, under the deep, 
Whelm her away forever; and 

then, — no Athens to save, — 
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps 

faith to the brave,— A certaix maid, i know. 




45 6 The Patriot 



Hie to my house and home : and, when my children shall creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — so ! " 



Unforeseeing one ! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day : 

So, when Persia was dust, all cried " To Akropolis ! 

Run, Pheidippides, one race more ! the meed is thy due ! 

* Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout ! " He flung down his 

shield, 
Ran like fire once more : and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field 
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, 
Till in he broke : *' Rejoice, we conquer ! " Like wine through 

clay, 
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss ! 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute 
Is still " Rejoice ! " — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 
So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man 
Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God 

loved so well 
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered 

to tell 
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, 
So to end gloriously— once to shout, thereafter be mute : 
" Athens is saved ! " — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his 

meed. 

THE PATRIOT. 

AN OLD STORY. 
I. 

It w^as roses, roses, all the way. 

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad : 

The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 

A year ago on this very day. 

II. 

The air broke into a mist with bells. 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 

Had I said, " Good folk, mere noise repels — 
But give me your sun from yonder skies ! " 

They had answered *'And afterward, what else } " 

III. 

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 



Popularity. 4^7 



Naught man could do, have I left undone: 

And you see my harvest, what I reap 
This very day, now a year is run. 

IV. 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at the windows set; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow, 
At the Shambles' Gate— or, better yet, 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 

V. 
I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 

A rope cuts both my wrists behind ; 
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 

For they fling, whoever has a mind, 
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 

VI. 

Thus I entered, and thus I go ! 

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead 
" Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 

]\Ie? "—God might question ; now instead, 
'Tis God shall repay : I am safer so. 

POPULARITY. 
I. 

Stand still, true poet that you are ! 

I know you ; let me try and diaw you. 
Some night you'll fail us : when afar 

You rise, remember one man saw you, 
Knew you, and named a star ! 

II. 

\j My star, God's glowworm ! Why extend 

That loving hand of His which leads you, 
Yet locks you safe from end to end 

Of this dark world, unless He needs you, 
Just saves your light to spend } 

III. 
His cUnched hand shall unclose at last, 

I know, and let out all the beauty : 
My poet holds the future fast, 

Accepts the coming ages' duty, 
Their present for this past. 



45^ Popularity, 



IV. 

That day, the earth's feast-master's brow 
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising ; 

" Others give best at first, but Thou 
Forever set'st our table praising, 

Keep'st the good wine till now ! " 

V. 

Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, 
With few or none to watch and wonder : 

I'll say — a fisher, on the sand 

By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, 

A netful, brought to land. 

VI. 

Who has not heard how Tyrian shells 
Inclosed the blue, that dye of dyes 

Whereof one drop worked miracles, 
And colored like Astarte's eyes 

Raw silk the merchant sells } 

VII. 

And each bystander of them all 
Could criticise, and quote tradition 

How depths of blue sublimed some pall 
— To get which, pricked a king's ambition ; 

Worth scepter, crown, and ball. 

VIII. 

Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, 
The sea has only just o'er-whispered ! 

Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh. 
As if they still the water's lisp heard 

Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. 

IX. 

Enough to furnish Solomon 

Such hangings for his cedar-house. 

That, when gold-robed he took the throne 
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse 

Might swear his presence shone 

X. 

Most like the center-spike of gold 

Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb 

What time, with ardors manifold. 
The bee goes singing to her groom, 

Drunken and overbold. 



Pisgah' Sights. 459 



XI. 

Mere conchs ! not fit for warp or woof ! 

Till cunning come to pound and squeeze 
And clarify, — refine to proof 

The liquor filtered by degrees, 
While the world stands aloof. 

XII. 

And there's the extract, flasked and fine. 

And priced and salable at last ! 
And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes combine 

To paint the future from the past, 
Put blue into their line. 

XIII. 
Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle eats : 

Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his cup: 
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, — 

Both gorge. Who fished the murex up.^^ 
What porridge had John Keats } 

PISGAH-SIGHTS. i. 

I. 
Over the ball of it, 

Peering and prying, 
How I see all of it, 

Life there, outlying ! 
Roughness and smoothness, 

Shine and defilement, 
Grace and uncouthness; 

One reconcilement. 

II. 
Orbed as appointed, 

Sister with brother 
Joins, ne'er disjointed 

One from the other. 
All's lend-and-borrow ; 

Good, see, wants evil, 
Joy demands sorrow, 

Angel weds devil ! 

III. 

" Which things must — why be .^ '* 

Vain our endeavor ! 
So shall things aye be 

As they were ever. 



460 Pisgah'Sights. 



" Such things should so be ! " 
Sage our desistence ! 

Rough-smooth let globe be, 
Mixed — man's existence ! 

IV. 

Man — wise and foolish, 

Lover and scorner, 
Docile and mulish — 

Keep each his corner ! 
Honey yet gall of it ! 

There's the life lying, 
And I see all of it, 

Only, I'm dying ! 

PISGAH-SIGHTS. 2. 

I. 

Could I but live again, 

Twice my life over, 
Would I once strive again ? 

Would not I cover 
Quietly all of it — 

Greed and ambition — 
So, from the pall of it, 

Pass to fruition ? 

II. 

** Soft ! " I'd say, " Soul mine ! 

Threescore and ten years. 
Let the blind mole mine 

Digging out deniers ! 
Let the dazed hawk soar. 

Claim the sun's rights too ! 
Turf 'tis thy walk's o'er. 

Foliage thy flight's to." 

III. 

Only a learner, 

Quick one or slow one, 
Just a discerner, 

I would teach no one. 
I am earth's native : 

No re-arranging it ! 
/ be creative, 

Chopping and changing it ? 



Pisgah- Sights. 461 



IV. 
March, men, my fellows! 

Those who, above me 
(Distance so mellows), 

Fancy you love me : 
Those who, below me 

(Distance makes great so), 
Free to forego me. 

Fancy you hate so ! 

V. 
Praising, reviling, 

Worst head and best head, 
Past me detiling, 

Never arrested, 
Wanters, abounders, 

March, in gay mixture. 
Men, my surrounders ! 

I am the fixture. 

VI. 

So shall I fear thee, 

Mightiness yonder! 
Mock-sun—more near thee, 

What is to wonder? 
So shall I love thee, 

Down in the dark,— lest 
Glowworm I prove thee, 

Star that now sparkiest ! 

PISGAH-SIGHTS. 3. 

I. 
Good, to forgive ; 

Best, to forget ! 

Living, we fret ; 
Dying, we live. 
Fretless and free, 

Soul, clap thy pinion ! 

Earth have dominion, 
Body, o'er thee ! 

II. 
Wander at will, 

Day after da}^ — 

Wander away, 
Wanderinor- still— 



462 At the ^'Mermaid.' 



Soul that canst soar ! 

Body may slumber: 

Body shall cumber 
Soul-flight no more. 

III. 
Waft of soul's wing ! 

What lies above } 

Sunshine and Love, 
Skyblue and Spring ! 
Body hides — where ? 

Ferns of all feather, 

Mosses and heather. 
Yours be the care ! 

AT THE "MERMAID." 

The figure that thou here seest . . . Tut ! 
Was it for gentle Shakspere put ? 

B. JuNSON. {Adapted^ 
I. 

I — " Next Poet ? " No, my hearties, 

I nor am nor fain would be ! 
Choose your chiefs and pick your parties. 

Not one soul re\olt to me ! 
I, forsooth, sow song-sedition ? 

I, a schism in verse provoke.'^ 
I, blown up by bard's ambition, 

Burst — your bubble-king ? You joke. 

II. 
Come, be grave ! The sherris mantling 

Still about each mouth, mayhap, 
Breeds you insight — just a scantling — 

Brings me truth out — just a scrap. 
Look and tell me ! Written, spoken. 

Here's my life-long w'ork : and where 
— Where's your warrant or my token 

I'm the dead king's son and heir } 

III. 
Here's my work : does work discover 

What was rest from work — my life .-^ 
Did I live man's hater, lover? 

Leave the world at peace, at strife } 
CaU earth ugliness or beauty ? 

See things there in large or small .^ 
Use to pay its Lord my duty 1 

Use to own a lord at all ? 



At the ''Merniaidr 



463 



IV. 

Blank of such a record, truly, 

Here's the work I hand, this scroll, 
Yours to take or leave ; as duly. 

Mine remains the unproffered soul. 
So much, no whit more, my debtors 

How should one like me lay claim 
To that largess elders, betters 

Sell you cheap their souls for— fame. ^ 

V. 

Which of you did I enable 

Once to slip inside my breast 
There to catalogue and label 

What I like least, what love best, 
Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, 

Seek and shun, respect — deride.? 
Who has right to make a rout of 

Rarities he found inside ? 

VI. 

Rarities or, as he'd rather, 

Rubbish such as stocks his own: 
Need and greed (oh strange !) the jpather 

Fashioned not for him alone! 
Whence— the comfort set a-strutting, 

Whence— the outcry - Haste, behold ! 
Bard s breast open wide, past shutting, 

Shows what brass we took for gold ! '* 

VII. 

Friends, I doubt not he'd displav you 

Brass— myself call oreichalch,— 
Furnish much amusement ; pray you 

Therefore, be content I balk 
Hmi and you, and bar my portal ! 

Here's my work outside ; opine 
What's inside me mean and mortal ! 

Take your pleasure, leave me mine! 

VIII. 
Which is— not to buy your laurel 

As last king did, nothing loth. 
Tale adorned and pointed moral 

Gained him praise and pity both. 
Out rushed sighs and groans bv dozens, 

Forth by scores oaths, curses f]ew : 



464 At the ''Mermaid. 



Proving you were cater-cousins, 
Kith and kindred, king and you ! 

IX. 

Whereas do I ne'er so httle 

(Thanks to sherris) leave ajar 
Bosom's gate — no jot nor tittle 

Grow we nearer than we are. 
Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, 

Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked, — 
Should I give my woes an airing, — 

Where's one plague that claims respect ? 

X. 

Have you found your life distasteful ? 

My life did and does smack sweet. 
Was your youth -of pleasure wasteful } 

Mine I saved and hold complete. 
Do your joys with age diminish ? 

When mine fail me, I'll complain. 
Must in death your daylight finish } 

My sun sets to rise again. 

XI. 

What, like you, he proved — your Pilgrim — 

This our world a wilderness, 
Earth still gray and heaven still grim, 

Not a hand there his might press. 
Not a heart his own might throb to, 

Men all rogues and women — say, 
Dolls which boys' heads duck and bob to, 

Grown folk drop or throw away ? 

XII. 

My experience being other, 

How should I contribute verse 
Worthy of your king and brother.^ 

Balaam-like I bless, not curse. 
I find earth not gray but rosy. 

Heaven not grim but fair of hue. 
Do I stoop ? I pluck a posy. 

Do I stand and stare } All's blue. 

XIII. 

Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by 
Rogues and fools enough: the more 

Good luck mine, I love, am loved by 
Some few honest to the core. 



At the ''Mermaid'' 465 



Scan the near high, scout the far low ! 

'' But the low come close : " what then? 
Simpletons ? My match is Marlowe ; 

Sciolists ? My mate is Ben. 

XIV. 
Womankind — "the cat-like nature, 

False and fickle, vain and weak " — 
Scarcely this sad nomenclature 

Suits my tongue, if I must speak. 
Does the sex invite, repulse so, 

Tempt, betray, by fits and starts } 
So becalm but to convulse so. 

Decking heads and breaking hearts } 

XV. 
Well may you blaspheme at fortune ! 

I " threw Venus " (Ben, expound !) 
Never did I need importune 

Her, of all the Olympian round. 
Blessings on my benefactress ! 

Cursings suit— for aught I know— 
Those who twitched her by the back tress, 

Tugged and thought to turn her— so ! 

XVI. 

Therefore, since no leg to stand on 

Thus I'm left with, — joy or grief 
Be the issue, — I abandon 

Hope or care you name me Chief ! 
Chief and king and Lord's anointed, 

I ? — who never once have wished 
Death before the day appointed : 

Lived and liked, not poohedand pished ! 

XVII. 
**Ah, but so I shall not enter. 

Scroll in hand, the common heart- 
Stopped at surface : since at center 

Song should reach Welt-schvierz, world smart ' " 
'' Enter in the heart } " Its shelly 

Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft ! 
Such song " enters in the belly 

And is cast out in the draught." 

XVIII. 
Back then to our sherris-brewage ! 
" Kingship " quotha } I shall wait— 



466 House. 

Waive the present time : some new age . . . 

But let fools anticipate ! 
Meanwhile greet me — *' friend, good fellow, 

Gentle Will," my merry men I 
As for making Envy yellow 

With " Next Poet "—(Manners, Ben !) 

HOUSE. 

I. 

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself ? 

Do I live in a house you would like to see ? 
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf ? 

" Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key ? " 

II. 

Invite the world, as my betters have done ? 

'* Take notice : this building remains on view, 
Its suites of reception every one, 

Its private apartment and bedroom too ; 

III. 

'* For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." 
No : thanking the public, I must decline.' 

A peep through my window, if folks prefer; 
But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine ! 

IV. 

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk 
In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced 

And a house stood gaping, naught to balk 
Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced. 

V. 

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, 
The inside gaped : exposed to day, 

Right and WTong and common and queer, 
Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay. 

VI. 

The owner ? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt ! 

** Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth ! 
What a parcel of musty old books about ! 

He smoked, — no w^onder he lost his health ! 

VII. 

" I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. 

A brazier ? — the pagan, he burned perfumes ! 



Shop. 



467 




^«^«*iWf' 



You see it is proved, what the neigh- 
bors guessed : 
His wife and himself had separate 
rooms." 

VIII. 

Friends, the goodman of the house at 
least 
Kept house to himself till an earth- 

A BRAZIER P-THE PAGAN, HE ,^. ,, "^^j^^ ^^"^^ 

BURNED PERFUMES ! ^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ 01 its iroutage pemiits you 

feast 
On the inside arrangement you praise or blame. 

IX. 

Outside should suffice for evidence: 

And whoso desires to penetrate 
Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense— 

No optics like yours, at any rate ! 

X. 

" Hoity toity ! A street to explore. 

Your house the exception ! ' Wi'lk this same key 
Shakspere milocked his heart' once more ! " 

Did Shakspere } If so, the less Shakspere he ! 

SHOP. 
I. 

So, friend, your shop was ^^;r-^-*-^^^«^"^ 
a 1 1 y o u r h o u s e ! ^' ' *-* — ^»«»*^^^-- -* 

Its front, astonishing the 
street, 
Invited view from man and 
mouse 
To what diversity of 

treat 
Behind its glass— the 
single sheet ! 

II. 

What gimcracks, genuine 
Japanese : 
Gape- jaw and goggle- 
eye, the frog ; 

Dragons, owls, monkeys, 

beetles, geese ; What gimcracks, genuine Japanese. 




468 Shop. 

Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog : 
Queer names, too, such a catalogue ! 

III. 

I thought, "And he who owns the wealth 
Which blocks the window's vastitude, 

— Ah, could I peep at him by stealth 
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude 
On house itself, what scenes were viewed ! 

IV. 

" If wide and show^y thus the shop, 
• What must the habitation prove } 

The true house with no name a-top — 
The mansion, distant one remove. 
Once get him off his traffic-groove ! 



** Pictures he likes, or books perhaps ; 
And as for buying most and best. 

Commend me to these city chaps ! 
Or else he's social, takes his rest 
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. 

VI. 

** Some suburb-palace, parked about 
And gated grandly, built last year : 

The four-mile w^alk to keep off gout ; 
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer : 
But then he takes the rail, that's clear. 

VII. 

" Or, stop ! I wager, taste selects 

Some out o' the way, some all-unknown 

Retreat: the neighborhood suspects 
Little that he wiio rambles lone 
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne !" 

VIII. 

Nowise ! Nor Mayfair residence 
Fit to receive and entertain, — 

Nor Hampstead villa's kind defense 

From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,- 
Nor country-box was soul's domain ! 

IX. 

Nowise ! At back of all that spread 
Of merchandise, woe's me, I find 



IShop. 45q 

A hole i' the wall where, heels by head, 
The owner couched, his ware behind, 
— In cupboard suited to his mind. 

X. 

For why ? He saw no use of life 

But, while he drove a roaring trade, 
To chuckle, " Customers are rife ! " 

To chafe, '' So much hard cash outlaid 

Yet zero in my profits made ! 

XI. 

" This novelty costs pains, but— takes ? 
Cumbers my counter ! Stock no more ! 

This article, no such great shakes, 
Fizzes like wild fire ? Underscore 
The cheap thing— thousands to the fore ! " 

XII. 

'Twas lodging best to live most nigh 

(Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) 
Receipt of Custom ; ear and eye 

Wanted no outworld : '* Hear and see 

The bustle in the shop ! " quoth he. 

XIII. 
My fancy of a merchant-prince 

Was different. Through his wares we groped 
Our darkling way to— not to mince 

The matter— no black den where moped 

The master if we interloped ! 

XIV. 
Shop was shop only : household stuff ? 

What did he want with comforts there ? 
''Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, 

So goods on sale show rich and rare ! 

* Sell and send home,' be shop's affair ! " 

XV. 

What might he deal \\\} Gems, suppose ! 

Since somehow business must be done 
At cost of trouble, — see, he throws 

You choice of jewels, every one 

Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun ! 

XVI. 

Which lies within your power of purse } 
This ruby that would tip aright 



470 ' Shop. 

Solomon's scepter ? Oh, 3'our nurse 
Wants simply coral, the delight 
Of teething baby,— stuff to bite ! 

XVII. 

Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took 
Your purchase, prompt your money rang 

On counter, — scarce the man forsook 
His study of the '' Times," just swang 
Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,— 

XVIII. 

Then off made buyer with a prize, 

Then seller to his '' Times " returned, 

And so did day wear, wear, till eyes 
Brightened apace, for rest was earned: 
He locked door long ere candle burned. 

XIX. 

And whither went he ? Ask himself. 
Not me ! To change of scene, I think. 

Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, 
Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, 
Nor all his music — money-chink. 

XX. 

Because a man has shop to mind 

In time and place, since flesh must live, 

Needs spirit lack all life behind, 
All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, 
All loves except what trade can give } 

XXI. 

I want to know a butcher paints, 
A baker rhymes for his pursuit. 

Candlestick-maker much acquaints 
His soul with song, or, haply mute, 
Blows out his brains upon the flute ! 

XXII. 

But — shop each day and all day long ! 
Friend, your good angel slept, your star 

Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong ! 
From where these sorts of treasures are, 
There should our hearts be — Christ, how far ! 



A Tale. 471 



A TALE. 

I. 
What a pretty tale you told me 

Once upon a time 
— Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) 

Was it prose or was it rhyme, 
Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said, 
While your shoulder propped my head. 

II. 
Anyhow there's no forgetting 

This much if no more. 
That a poet (pray, no petting !) 

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 
Went where suchlike used to go, 
Singing for a prize, you know. 

III. 

Well, he had to sing, nor merely 

Sing but play the lyre ; 
Playing was important clearly 

Quite as singing : I desire, 
Sir, you keep the fact in mind 
For a purpose that's behind. 

IV. 

There stood he, while deep attention 

Held the judges round, 
— Judges able, I should mention. 

To detect the slightest sound 
Sung or played amiss ; such ears 
Had old judges, it appears ! 

V. 

None the less he sang out boldly, 

Played in time and tune. 
Till the judges, weighing coldly 

Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, 
Sure to smile '' In vain one tries 
Picking faults out: take the prize ! " 

VI. 

When, a mischief ! Were they seven 

Strings the lyre possessed ? 
Oh, and afterward eleven. 

Thank you ! Well, sir,— who had guessed 
Such ill luck in store? — it happed 
One of those same seven strings snapped. 




A TALE. 



A Tale. 473 



VII. 

All was lost, then ! No ! a cricket 
(What '' cicada " ? Pooh !) 

— Some mad thing that left its thicket 
For mere love of music — flew 

With its httle heart on fire, 

Lighted on the crippled lyre. 

VIII. 

So that when (Ah joy !) our singer 

For his truant string 
Feels with disconcerted finger. 

What does cricket else but fling 
Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
Wanted by the throbbing throat } 

IX. 

Ay and, ever to the ending, 

Cricket chirps at need, 
Executes the hand's intending, 

Promptly, perfectly, — indeed 
Saves the singer from defeat 
With her chirrup low and sweet. 

X. 

Till, at ending, all the judges 

Cry with one assent 
*' Take the prize — a prize who grudges 

Such a voice and instrument ? 
Why, we took your lyre for harp, 
So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 

XI. 

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, 

Once its service done ? 
That's no such uncommon feature 

In the case when Music's son 
Finds his Lotte's power too spent 
For aiding soul-development. 

XII. 

No ! This other, on returning 

Homeward, prize in hand, 
Satisfied his bosom's yearning : 

(Sir, I hope you understand !) 
— Said " Some record there must be 
Of this cricket's help to me ! " 



474 A Tale. 



XIII. 

So, he made himself a statue : 

Marble stood, life-size ; 
On the lyre, he pointed at you, 

Perched his partner in the prize ; 
Never more apart you found 
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 

XIV. 

That's the tale : its application ? 

Somebody I know- 
Hopes one day for reputation 

Through his poetry that's — Oh, 
All so learned and so wise, 
And deserving of a prize ! 

XV. 

If he gains one, will some ticket. 

When his statue's built, 
Tell the gazer " 'Twas a cricket 

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 
Sweet and low% when strength usurped 
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped ? 

XVI. 

** For as victory was nighest, 

While I sang and played, — 
With my lyre at lowest, highest. 

Right alike, — one string that made 
' Love ' sound soft w^as snapped in tw^ain, 
Never to be heard again, — 



XVII. 

"- Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 

Perched upon the place 
Vacant left, and duly uttered 

' Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass 
Asked the treble to atone 
For its somew^hat somber drone." 

XVIII. 

I 5.. \ ".1 But you don't know music ! Wherefore 

^^'S "* Keep on casting pearls 

To a — poet ? All I care for 
. Is — to tell him that a girl's 
** Love " comes aptly in when gruff 
throws his singing. (There, enough!) 



(X^ 



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